cracked pots

My friend Christina has a knack for killing stuff. Mostly plants. Ok, maybe only plants. At least, as far as I know. She bought these cute pots from PB some time ago and had them grouped on top of her ancient entertainment center. They made even that beast look good. It only makes sense then thatI had been secretly lusting after them. She finally gave up the ghosts of those poor, defenseless, innocent plants, chunked them in the trash, and showed up at my house one day with the pots. Yes!

Did I mention that I live with toddler? Who is excellent, particularly, at toddling. And so we had an accident. 

Cracked pots. Realistically, shattered in some places. Who knew that a four foot fall onto the floor would have that effect? No amount of glue-gunning was going to fix this. I had to find the super glue. Key word: find. Who even uses that stuff anymore? Apparently not my hubband because this is the conversation that transpired:

H: So, I see you're using super glue.

Me: Mmmm hmmm. {Hummed in a "I already know what you're thinking!" tone.}

H: How is it going? Does it work?

Me: What do you mean, does it work? Haven't you used it before?

H: Nope. Why would I?

That made me snicker. Why on earth would you try to put something back together that is so clearly broken? In fact, why am I trying to put something together that is shattered and will obviously look "repaired" and not perfect -- without blemish -- as before?

Because I'm a cracked pot, too. I am broken and glued a lot. I have glue stuck to parts of me and am missing chunks in others. We all need a little glue, a little time, and someone with a little love to put us back together again. 

And while people can see that we're broken, and while we may never work quite the same again, it's worth it, right? I'm worth it. You're worth it. They're worth it. 

Even if we're cracked pots, we can still be used.
We can still be useful.
We can still be beautiful.
We can still be part of the bloom.