Stupid things I love unreasonably much

Last week, we narrowly avoided a tragedy. Jimmy, age 2, spilled a cup of water on Bob. I was at the dentist when it happened. At least I have that comfort. Bob was injured in my absence. It was not I who failed to protect him. Coray fully grasped the enormity of situation. As I pulled into the driveway, stiff-faced and jaw-throbbing, she ran out to meet me. "Oh mom, it's Bob. I didn't know what to do. Jimmy dumped water on him and he wont stop running so I turned him upside down and put him on my bed. I don't think he's OK."

I should mention that Bob is a vacuum. A little round robot vacuum.

I ran to her room where Bob was in fact, upside down on her bed, wheels spinning furiously. I picked him up. I turned him over. I pushed the power button. Nothing. The wheels kept turning. Coray rolled her eyes, "yeah, we did try that." I tried more buttons. Then I tried combinations of buttons. And the wheels kept spinning.

I felt panicked. Well and truly panicked. It was unbearable. I finally took the battery out and set my dead little robot down on the kitchen counter. He was so still. I'd like to say that I loyally grieved for him. But I didn't. I left his sick bed immediately and ran to the computer to price replacements.

It's not that I don't have other vacuums. I have owned and even occasionally used other vacuums. I'm pretty sure I even know where another one is.

But Bob isn't just a vacuum. He was a deal I made with myself. He was the day that I understood that I could want to be a good mom and clean the floor and still want to read Maupassant instead. He was the day I accepted that maybe I should quit shooting for "perfect" and "should" and content myself with reasonable approximations.

As a victorious side note, I will point out that I didn't yell at anyone. Not the alleged babysitter, not the traitorous child who broke the no-open-cups-for-the-baby-rule, not the baby who was giggling over Bob's demise with twinklier eyes than I would have liked. I find that letting go of my shoulds makes me far less yellish as Juliana would say.

I sat on the couch later that evening, considering a Bob-less future and analyzing my budget for a Bob sized surplus. I considered life without him. I contemplated the return of guilt, the memory of inadequacy. And I began to wonder how many other ways I could make peace with all the women I am and want to be if I would just keep looking.

Bob's circuits dried out. After three false starts that confirmed our worst fears, he finally dried out enough to forgive our carelessness. He beeped three times and then came to life, whizzing emphatically around the kitchen that had gone uncleaned the night before (I said I think I know where another vacuum is not that I was sure). I watched him lovingly as he zipped with all the purposeful energy that I have never felt while cleaning. Then, I sat down to read, content to know that my bargain with sloth was in full force and all was right with the world.