Why things mysteriously break whenever I’m around
I don’t know why this happens.
Honestly, I think science owes me an explanation.
Maybe NASA.
Maybe Discovery Channel.
Maybe whoever investigates paranormal activity.
Because there has to be a perfectly logical reason why ordinary household objects seem magnetically attracted to my hands.
I’m not exaggerating.
I could be quietly walking through the kitchen, minding my own business, and suddenly the dustpan decides we’re best friends. It somehow hooks itself onto my foot, topples over, and creates enough noise to convince everyone that I’ve started a one-woman demolition project.
Then there’s dinner.
I could be passionately telling a story—complete with dramatic hand gestures because apparently my stories come with free choreography—and before I know it…
Crash.
Another drinking glass has volunteered as tribute.
At this point, my family doesn’t even react anymore.
Nobody gasps.
Nobody asks, “Are you okay?”
Instead, someone calmly says,
“So… what broke this time?”
Our family has accepted its fate
We’ve reached a point where drinking glasses have become… consumables.
Most families buy groceries.
We buy replacement glasses.
Just in case.
Actually, not “just in case.”
Let’s be honest.
Because it’s only a matter of time.
Whenever someone hears something shatter, nobody even needs to investigate.
All eyes slowly turn toward me.
I usually respond with the face of someone who genuinely has no idea how it happened.
Because I really don’t.
The plot twist
Apparently, clumsiness is hereditary.
One day, one of my daughters accidentally broke something.
She froze.
Looked at me.
Smiled.
And I just laughed and said,
“Anak talaga kita.”
We both burst out laughing.
Because what else are we supposed to do?
The plate wasn’t going to unbreak itself.
And I certainly wasn’t going to pretend I came from a long line of graceful women who glide through life without knocking things over.
That would be historical fiction.
My other hidden talent
I’m also incredibly gifted at looking for things…
…while already wearing them.
My eyeglasses?
Usually sitting comfortably on top of my head while I search the entire house.
My phone?
Sometimes in my hand.
Sometimes in my pocket.
Sometimes I’m using the flashlight on my phone…
to look for my phone.
Please don’t ask me how.
I don’t have answers.
My mom deserves hazard pay
Speaking of surprises…
My mom has mastered the art of walking silently.
Not normal “I didn’t hear you.”
I mean spy-level silent.
She’ll quietly leave the kitchen while I’m happily doing something else, completely unaware.
Then suddenly…
She’s right beside me.
I scream.
Every.
Single.
Time.
She laughs.
Then gives me a playful smack on the arm.
Then we both laugh even harder.
You’d think after all these years I’d learn.
I haven’t.
Apparently, my survival instincts are permanently set to dramatic.
I used to get embarrassed
There was a time when little moments like these bothered me.
I’d apologize.
Feel awkward.
Wonder why I couldn’t be one of those effortlessly elegant women who seem to float through life without bumping into furniture or dropping perfectly innocent objects.
You know the type.
They carry coffee, answer a phone call, hold a handbag, and somehow nothing spills.
Meanwhile, I can trip over absolutely nothing.
It’s almost impressive.
Then I realized something
Life already gives us enough reasons to be serious.
Bills.
Deadlines.
Heartbreak.
Uncertainty.
If I also choose to be upset every time I break a glass or scare myself because my mother walks too quietly…
I’ll miss the comedy hidden inside ordinary days.
I’ve learned that laughter doesn’t erase problems.
It simply gives them less power over me.
Maybe that’s one of the reasons I’ve survived the difficult seasons of my life.
I’ve always found a way to laugh.
Sometimes at the situation.
Very often…
At myself.
Never because my struggles aren’t real.
But because joy deserves a seat at the table too.
Family legends have to start somewhere
One day, I imagine my daughters telling stories about me to their own children.
“You know your Lola?”
“She once spent ten minutes looking for her glasses.”
“They were on her head.”
Or…
“Every time something broke in the house, we already knew who did it.”
I just hope they tell those stories while laughing.
Because that’s exactly how I want to be remembered.
Not as someone who had everything perfectly together.
But as someone who made home feel light.
Someone who reminded them that mistakes happen.
Glasses break.
Dustpans attack.
People trip.
Life gets messy.
And somehow…
We laugh anyway.
Because in the end, those little moments often become the stories we treasure the most.
There was a time when little accidents didn’t feel little.
A broken glass or another bruise on my shin became another reason to believe there was something wrong with me.
I carried that feeling for longer than I should have.
These days, things haven’t changed much.
I still bump into chairs that swear they weren’t there a second ago.
I still collect mysterious bruises like they’re souvenirs.
The difference is this:
Now, the people around me laugh with me.
Not at me.
And somehow, that changed everything.
So if you ever visit our house and hear something crash…
Don’t panic.
It’s probably just me introducing myself to another innocent household object.
We’ll laugh.
Sweep up the pieces.
And carry on.
After all…
Life is too short to cry over another drinking glass.
Especially when we bought extras.
😂
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