We need a way to forgive others, ourselves, and the fact that things don’t turn out the way we expected. Writing our experiences, our fears and our aspirations can clear away the overload of resentment and the stale taste of remorse.
– B.L. Pike in “Write Now: Why You Really Can’t Wait Any Longer”
I ask my son to help with dinner. He snaps and stomps, tells me he’s not going to cook for both of us, he’s only going to make his own snack, and it’s not fair. For once, I conquer the urge to roar back. Instead, my voice is even as it reminds him of his options. He can either make dinner for us both by himself, or he can help me make dinner for us both together.
“Why do I have to do everything around here?” He storms into my room, hauls Biggie the stuffed polar bear off the bed, and thrashes him against the mattress. Noodle comes streaking out, head bowed, ears down.
I empty the dishwasher then check the mail.
This began months ago. At least. Years more likely, and probably well before I even had a child. My own inconsistency and zig-zaggy directionlessness were bound to play themselves out in our after-school routine (or what tries to pass as one). Bug wants a snack when he gets home. What’s a little bite of pudding or a few pieces of pepperoni? That was then. Now “snack” has ballooned into scrambled eggs with toast, pizza, quesadillas. He makes what amounts to a meal for himself, leaves the mess, and quashes any hopes for dinner.
Now that I see how far gone we are, I’ve begun to reel mealtime back in. Understandably, he’s yanking hard. He’s fighting to hang onto his lead, and barring that, snap the line altogether.
Maybe other parents have a clear plan when it comes to these things. It would be great if they shared that map with me. In our home, we ping all over the place, each set of habits and values crashing into the next. I want my son to learn independence — yay for making scrambled eggs unassisted! — and also cultivate thoughtfulness. I want him to play free and wild, and contribute to order and organization. Trust his own tastes and step into unfamiliar territory. Use his voice and his ears.
On any given evening, I’m buffeting my boy with a half dozen incompatible messages.
Tonight, I only know that it’s the perfect moment to reclaim dinnertime. For these few minutes on a rainy evening, we are stuck in each other’s presence. My boy is well past grown enough to give me a hand in the kitchen, so now is as good as a time as any to share the burden as well as the reward.
A few minutes pass in silence. Then Bug drags himself up the hall. He drops Biggie on the kitchen floor and joins me at the counter. He lays tortillas in the pan, pats down cheese, fills glasses, ladles beans. Not a word about our fracas, just scrubbing carrots. Just setting the timer.
We eat together with silverware he has carried to the table. He tells me about his book report on mice and about breaking his first board in karate. “I really appreciate your help making dinner,” I tell him. “It tastes so much better when we cook together. Thank you.” He shrugs and shoves the last triangle of quesadilla in his mouth. I see the smile.
After we finish, we sit close on the couch and leaf through a book together, making notes on a clipboard about nests and habitats. When I go into the kitchen to cobble together brownies for a PTA potluck, he follows and peers into the bowl. “Can I help?”
“Of course.” I hand him the butter and egg. He digs through a drawer for measuring spoons. Planting himself there under the canopy of my arms, he stirs as I scrape the sides, stirs until the brown batter glistens.
12 thoughts on “41. Things I Can Believe: Those Wise Words”
Tears. We are in the same universe, and it seems less lonely now. Thank you for sharing.
We are indeed closer than we think.
Sensitive writing, thanks for sharing.
Thank you for the kind words.
Sounds like you’re doing just fine Mom. Take it from the mother of four girls who were rarely allowed in the kitchen as youngsters because I dreaded the mess. I missed out on a lot of memories. In my defense I worked full time and then had to come home, cook, clean, etc. In the late 70s and early 80s I still believed the lie that I could do it all. That I HAD to do it all.
Yep… when Bug pulls out the food coloring, flour, and cranberry juice and says he wants to do an “experiment,” I have to breathe then breathe some more.
We all do our best with the information we have, and it sounds like you are doing just fine! I would, if left to my own devices, do things exactly the same way as you. But when I remarried, my husband, who is consistent in the extreme, set some ground rules. Things are consistent. And no snacking before meals. He does have my son cook with him every now and then but being super neat we’ve missed out on teaching him to just go and make himself whatever. As you say, there is that flip side of independence and resourcefulness. I often wonder whether what we’re doing is right, and how much he’s missed out on. I guess we all worry about the same things – and I think that awareness makes us good, engaged parents. But Bug came back. He got in there and helped. He understands. Maybe he, like all of us, just doesn’t want to sometimes, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t get it. I think you’re doing great!
Wow, this is a great perspective. As for ground rules, I believe kids really do thrive on routines and consistency.
The other thing I try to remember is that the range of good ways, good choices, is vast. Many kinds of families make many kinds of people. As long as love is at the root, we turn out mostly okay.
Yes! Exactly. You echo my thoughts completely, only you write them better than I managed this morning.
Thanks for the reminder. We’re all trying to make it work, and it’s nice to know I’m not so alone in this.
Definitely not alone 🙂