. On Mistakes .

I called Miss Cleo the psychic in seventh grade. Her commercials were all over one of the three channels we had at the farm, and I was intrigued. I called the 1-900 number and was only going to talk for a second but Miss CLEO - man. 
She had some THINGS to tell me.
Such IMPORTANT, LENGTHY things that I don’t even remember.
The first, very thick, phone bill came in the mail and I hid it between the cookbooks at home. (NO ONE FOUND IT UNTIL WE MOVED OUT.)
The second, very thick phone bill came, and I hid it between some books in my closet.
And then, one day, I was in the car with my mom when she got the mail. 
BECAUSE SOMETIMES JESUS HAS A SENSE OF HUMOR LIKE THAT.
“What’s that,” I so casually asked, as she opened the third, very thick (and now very late) phone bill.
“It’s the phone bill,” she said, concerned. “I didn’t get the first one, so I called and asked them to send it again.” 
OF COURSE YOU DID, NANCE.
You know those events in your life in which you’ll never forget where you were? We were parked by the strawberry patch in the driveway. Our grey Buick was pointing towards the back porch. And I was sweating.
“What in the …” Mom’s voice trailed off and I’m pretty sure I squeezed my eyes shut. 
Slowly, her head turned towards me. “Do you know anything about this?” 
Yeah. Mom. Turns out, I do.
But I’m almost certain I didn’t own up to it right away. I’m almost positive that I played dumb. That was ALWAYS my first line of defense. 
Must’ve been Brett. Must’ve been Brett calling the psychic because it for sure wasn’t me. Brett would TOTALLY do something like that.
(Except he wouldn’t. Ever.)
That night, I was treated to a Dining Room Table Discussion in which Parent One and Parent Two (sometimes referred to as Mom and Dad, or Nance and Rog, or Momma and Daddy) sternly talked to me about “making better choices”. 
Specifically, instead of asking Miss Cleo for help with my math homework, I could instead ask my Aerospace Engineer Dad for help, or my ridiculously smart brother who would ALSO turn into an Aerospace Engineer Dad. 
I’m fairly certain I cried. 
I’m also fairly certain that I cried at every single Dining Room Table Discussion throughout my years growing up, but whatever.
Which is all just to say that sometimes, we screw up. Sometimes, we screw up HUGE. Whether it’s hitting the mailbox with our car (more than once), calling a fake psychic, or something else equally as stupid. 
Sometimes we just screw up. 
Thank goodness for the people that help correct us.
And thank goodness for the people that still love us despite it all. 
And thank goodness they don't have 1-900 numbers anymore. Or do they? 
Or wait. 
Don't answer that. 
xoxo, B.