It's a Sad Day to be a Snowglobe

Farewell to thee, dear snowglobe.

You were a lovely Holiday decoration.  One of my all time favorites.

Until you met your untimely end.  Until you met...

Max.

Max the Destroyer.

Tyrannosaurus Max.

Max.  Terminator of snowglobes.

Why was it on a lower bookshelf where chubby little hands could reach?

Very good question.

I blame the bookshelf scaling talents of Big Brother.

Picture it.  12:00 noonish.  lunchtime.  Just arrived home from picking up Biggest Bro at pre school.

Baby Harrison getting diaper changed.

Mommy, on the phone with Colorado Cousin.

When ten chubby fingers grasped the pretty, pretty, snow filled magical orb of Holiday beauty.

Then ten chubby little fingers...

Let.

Go.

Explosion.

Glass, water, fake snow, EVERYWHERE.

Did you know snowglobes explode?

They do.

They explode.

They should call them snowbombs.

Did you know the water inside smells funny?

It does.

They should call them, Funny Smelling Snowbombs.

They should call them, Slippery Funny Smelling Snowbombs.  (I am using caps to indicate a proper name.  I'm thinking of filing for a patent.  these babies will fly off the shelves.)

The water and glass went everywhere.  It was like a Christmastime war zone.  Baby crying.  Colorado Cousin confusion.  Speckles of snow flooding into the heater vent onto the floor and into the tiny cracks between the bookshelf and the floor.  Seeping under the wood to warp the pretty floor and ruin Christmas forever. 

For-ehh-veeer...

Did I mention the baby was crying?

Such a stressful sound when you are trying to clean up a snowglobe catastrophe.

Then Max started crying.

Then Lucas started asking for his lunch.  Can he have it now?  How bout now?  I'm hungry now!  Can we eat now?  Hey, Mommy.  Mommy.  Mommy.

Baby crying.  Did I tell you the baby was crying?

I no longer have a snowglobe.

Mariah of the Land of No Snowglobes