It was Thanksgiving morning when the milk spilled.

Not a cup of milk. Not a bowl of milk. A gallon of milk. And despite the mess, it gave my wife a chance to school me on parenting.

Our 9-year-old, still groggy from a pre-Thanksgiving Day late night, dropped the milk container on the kitchen floor while preparing a bowl of Frosted Flakes. The impact punctured the side. Milk gushed everywhere.

When it was about to run under our fridge and dishwasher, our daughter lifted the container, but milk still cascaded out.

“Turn it over,” I said from across the kitchen, on the verge of yelling. It was a painfully vague attempt to have my daughter, who could barely lift the thing in the first place, turn the container over so the punctured part was up to slow the flow.

She didn’t understand and grew scared and confused.

Seeing tears about to flow, I ran through the puddle in my socks, snatched the container from her, turned it over and placed it in the sink.

The flow stopped. The tears started.

“It’s my fault,” she said, covering her mouth and erupting into sobs.

The magnitude of the mess had settled for her. Milk was everywhere.

I opened a drawer to grab towels, but to my frustration there weren’t any. Before I could scream for a towel, my wife appeared in the kitchen. Like some ponytailed vigilante, she swooped in and grabbed the towels before I could. Before you could say 2%, she blanketed the milk with the towels and went to our daughter.

“It’s OK,” she said. “It happens. It’s just spilled milk.”

Just spilled milk. She was so calm, but things were still settling for me. It was just spilled milk, but I had questions, like – I don’t know – how do you manage to spill an entire gallon of milk?

Then I realized what my wife saw immediately. Our daughter was scared and confused. This was an accident. The kid needed a break, not some inquisition from Dad.

My wife, who is right more than I admit, sent a clear Thanksgiving morning message without saying a word to me: It’s just spilled milk.

I should follow her lead, I thought.

“Yeah, just spilled milk,” I said from the floor, soaking up the mess and trying not to look frustrated.

After tensions eased, our daughter took some milk-soaked towels to the laundry room. I shot my wife a perplexed glance.

“It’s OK,” she mouthed back at me.

It’s not the first time she had appeared from nowhere to smooth a situation. It won’t be the last. Her instinct, approach, method – whatever you call it – was right on, again. There will be more tears and spills to mix with memories heading into Christmas and beyond.

After the last towel was soaked, I pondered Milkgate 2025. What better way to instill models of healthy behavior and emotional resilience than showing, not telling, our kids that there’s no need to cry – or launch an inquisition – over spilled milk? And if we want our kids to be resilient when actual crises arrive, shouldn’t we show them how to do it when small ones show up?

I’ll let you make that call. Meanwhile, I’m granting my wife the totally made-up Thanksgiving Day Parent of the Year Award for demonstrating what I almost didn’t: sincere patience and kindness.

Still, despite all the hubbub over spilled milk, there was one injustice from the situation: my milky socks.