Blame Game

We have gone through four reusable water bottles for Logan this year at school. I don’t understand this. I buy them, but somehow she eventually brings each of them home and tells me that her teacher won’t let her use them because they leak or spill. This is frustrating because I’ve now spent about $40 on water bottles that I would have much rather spent on the possibility of a cleaning service. When Logan came home with her last, most expensive, stainless steel bottle in a plastic bag on Monday, I think I literally growled.

What was even better for this overworked, underappreciated, slightly in a life funk mom, was what she said next.

“My teacher says you don’t know how to screw the top on right,” said Logan.

“What?” I marveled at the betrayal of this other woman also in charge a gaggle of crazy kids throwing me to the wolves. “I assure you I know how to screw on a top!”

“Well, that’s what she says,” snapped Logan.

After wasting a solid five morning minutes “practicing” my bottle screwing ability, I assure you that I cannot make this bottle leak-free. So Logan left with my MacGuyver-ed version: her bottle with a wound up paper towel around the neck secured with a thick rubber band. (Which, of course, she finds utterly embarrassing.)

As she bounced out the door, I grumbled to myself about being sabotaged by this woman whose pencils I sharpen on a regular basis and who has never been anything but great.

Guess we all need someone to blame once in awhile!