Pre-motherhood, I used to wonder about the idiom “Don’t cry over spilt milk.” It didn’t make sense to me because, for heaven’s sake, why would anyone cry over spilt milk? Unless you lived in crushing poverty, just wipe it up, get a new glass, or drink OJ….
Of course, that was then. When Athos was born, I experienced huge difficulties with breastfeeding. One night, during a period when my milk supply was very low, Athos woke up in the middle of the night to be fed. To give me some rest, Pilgrim Dad did the honours. He went to the kitchen, warmed up some expressed breastmilk, brought it to the bedroom, whereupon in his bleary half-awake state he knocked over the bottle and spilled half the contents. When I saw the precious stuff all over the floor, I promptly burst into tears. And Pilgrim Dad, the dear (barely awake) man, responded “Don’t cry over spilt milk. Haha.”
Suffice to say he will eternally regret the joke.
Anyway, all this is simply to say I now have an intimate and intuitive understanding of the idiom. And I’m also starting a new category called “Spilt Milk” for about the travails of motherhood. We read to know we are not alone.