I was in a mood.

It was Saturday evening and all I wanted to do was finish this book I was reading and maybe do some writing. Take-out for dinner. That had been my plan. But of course by dinnertime the family decided they wanted this curry they claim I make so well.

“Please mom, it's so good when you make it!”

So what else could I do but chain myself to the stove once again?

“Cooking” is in my unwritten “mommy” job description, direct from that Human Resources Department from hell, where at times it seems like I have made some sort of Faustian bargain.

But I did not go down without a fight. I am after all my mother’s daughter. From her I have learned to play this role so well: the passive-aggressive martyr.

I sigh. I mention it is my weekend, too.

In the middle of slicing and dicing onions and tomatoes, I mutter, “how do you expect me to work with knives like these? I hate these knives, they’re awful.”

“If you need new knives, just buy new knives,” says my husband patiently.

But that’s not the point, I fume. Why should I get them? After all, isn’t it the employer who is supposed to make sure the employee has all the right tools for the “job."

Why should I interrupt my day to go buy knives? I am always the one doing the sacrificing I commiserate with myself.

Anyway, so nice husband that he is, shortly after I have a brand new knife set, gleaming razor-sharp, very snazzy.

Now one of those darned knives has sliced my hand. Not seriously, it’s a paper-thin cut but bad and bloody enough for my kid to dryly comment, “that’s one bad owie, Mom.”

And it hurts like hell.

Karma?

By Tania Malik

Labels: Tania Malik

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