What's For Dinner?

        It seems that most storytellers who have children have a story about the child saying something and then the parent looking around hoping that someone outside the family did not hear what was said and take the meaning out of context. Sarah mentioned recently that Horatio was calling to her from the bathroom one day – H is three years old – the comment was a reasonable one, and as Sarah responded, she suddenly realized how odd the conversation would be if someone else were hearing it.

        This brings to mind my own story in a similar vein. Amanda was a pre-schooler and Sarah was in kindergarten. It was dinnertime, I was cooking, and both girls were vocal and ravenous. I can picture the kitchen where this took place – the new house in Texas – so Sarah was 5 and Amanda just past her third birthday. They asked what I was preparing for dinner.

        Does it bother you when someone asks “what's for dinner?” or “what are you cooking?” The question makes me nervous. I would rather put the finished meal on the table, and if there are going to be complaints, well, they can begin then. If I tell people what I'm fixing, and they are not okay with the menu, then I would have to hear the complaints while I am cooking and continuing until the completion of the meal! Not revealing ahead of time what the food is going to be just lessens the duration of negative comments I might be forced to hear. I rarely told the girls what I was preparing even if they asked.

        On this particular evening, Sarah and Amanda were hungry and inquired as to what I was cooking. I did not tell them. Good thing, or my fears would have manifested. When the food was ready and I put it on the table and onto their plates, the negative comments from the girls came. And the deflated feeling of whatever is the opposite of “motherhood is so rewarding” swept over me.

        One especially wearying exercise the girls liked at the dinner table was bargaining for dessert. How many green beans would one have to eat to get dessert? Half a dessert? A spoonful of dessert? Could one get any dessert if no green beans were eaten? Eventually I would tell them no negotiating, clean the plate!

        I cannot recall the other specific comments the girls were making about the dinner – only that they were unyielding and a tad loud. At one point I looked out the window next to the dinner table and realized the window was not only open to the screen, but it faced the road which was not very far away at all. Gasp! Neighbors could probably hear Sarah and Amanda carrying on! I reached over and closed the window.

        “See what you two have made me do? I have to close the window so the neighbors won't hear your loud complaints and call the police!”

        Silence.

        Then, “Why would the police come, Mom?” Sarah was very serious.

        “Well, if the neighbors can hear you, they might think that I'm doing something terrible to you and that is why you are being so loud. So they will call the police. And the police will come and say that I have been abusing you, and they will take me away!”

        “Oh,” Sarah said with a sound of relief that surprised me, “They will take you away?”

        Sure – why would the kids be afraid of the police? They would only be taking Mom off to jail!

         I sat there feeling sorry for myself.

        Then in my mind I played out the scene the way it would really happen:

        The neighbors hearing a racket coming from my kitchen would call the police.

        The police would knock on the door

        “What seems to be the disturbance here, Ma'am?”

        “Well, you see, Officer, it is like this. I was fixing dinner for my two little girls, and when I put the food on the table, they loudly let me know that they would rather I cooked something different, and so they have been bitterly complaining about it ever since they sat down to eat.”

        “What kind of food are you trying to serve your daughters?”

        “Well, Officer, let's see – tonight I made mashed potatoes, gravy, green beans, and turkey.....Gosh! I am just horrible! You'd better handcuff me and take me away!”

        And just maybe they would take me away because they'd realize I would prefer jail to my kitchen just then.

        That is when I reached over and reopened the window.

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