When it comes to some confessions, there's the two year rule, the five year rule, and for serious ones, the ten year rule.
You know. You wait until you've been out of the house for two years before you tell your mom about the time you "accidentally" shot one of her best egg-laying hens. With an arrow. Up it's rear. And you (and your siblings) had to chase it for 10 minutes so you could forcefully pull the thing out. All the while hoping and praying it wouldn't squawk too loudly.
That type of confession. By then, it's funny. Mom isn't looking at that chicken as a dollar sign with two legs and a beak running around.
This morning, Conni put something in the microwave to heat up. She said, "Gross! What happened to the microwave?"
Upon examination, I realized that we had all heated up leftover soup in the microwave yesterday, and no one covered their bowl. So vegetable beef soup was splattered all over it.
This must have triggered a memory for Conni, because a confession came next.
"That reminds me of the time that I was 5 and I found a cold lizard. It wasn't moving, but I knew it wasn't dead. I thought if I put it in the microwave and warmed it up a bit it would be fine."
Oh dear. I think I know where we are going with this.
"I put it in there - just for a few seconds - and it exploded! Just like that soup. There were lizard parts everywhere."
"It was a mess. It really stunk, too."
At the time, I probably would have been horrified. I would've sanitized the microwave and given her a lecture.
Today, it's just funny.
Lizards in the microwave; that falls in the nine year rule for confessions.
I shudder to think what I'll hear over the next few years.