Apples on the Ceiling
I have a clear memory from childhood of apples on the ceiling, my brother, and a totally bad idea. We threw them, strong and high, those apples at the ceiling. We did all while jumping on the beds. I can still see the faint brown spots on the ceiling. Battle wounds. I have zero recollection of why we were throwing apples at the ceiling. I've come to realize we probably had no reason. No thought out plan. No pros and cons. No reasoning at all. Just apples at the ceiling.
Today, I'm thankful for this memory. Because when I see red crayon across our wall, I think of apples on the ceiling. As I see a wet, sopping wet, washcloth being tossed at the mirror from the bathtub and when I find an attempt to squirt ketchup inside the honey bear bottle, I remember those faint brown spots. I remember the lack of plan and reasoning. When I see the overflowing toilet, the spit out JellyBelly on the floor (bad flavor), or the sink torn apart; I remember the apples. When I see our double jogger stroller speeding down our driveway with Little Boy inside, no one pushing him, and Big Boy standing at the top of the driveway jumping with joy as if cheering a race at the finish line. Yes, indeed, I remember my childhood sibling moment.
I think of the apples on the ceiling and know, just maybe, my boys are going to be alright.