The Whirligig of Time Has Its Revenge.

June 9, 2009 – 7:21 am |

Last night, serving dinner, I realized the exact moment I went wrong.  As I placed dinner on the table, just as one of my kids started howling about the meal choice, total recognition set in.   Now that 7.5 has discontinued frozen pizza and 4 balks at the frozen chicken nugget, I’ve run out options that please all three.  As the dinner hour approaches I brace myself for the inevitable question. “What’s for dinner?”  they ask, pleasantly.  I steel myself and respond, waiting for one of them to suck breath and begin the wail.  I brought the problem on myself, of course, back in ‘98.  Three years before my first kid was even born.

I’d been married about a year at the time.  I’m not alone, by the way. You did it too.  We all did.  Before we knew.  Caught up in our own stubborn, silly, unsubstantiated certainty, the kind of certainty that thrives only in complete ignorance, we rolled our eyes; we scoffed and muttered.   When parenting was still the fantasy, the imagined-child was still fantastic, and we harbored no parenting guilt or secrets, it was easy to criticize.    After all, *no kid of mine* would ever [fill-in-the-blank], and even if they did, Future Parent Me would never stand for it.

Growing up at my house, we believed in karma, destiny, and superstition.  We knocked on wood.  We  threw salt over our shoulders.  We used humble introductory phrases like “I’m  no expert, but” “Or, take this for what it’s worth.”   We self-protected.  If only I’d been a little smarter that summer day in 1998 driving through North Dakota, I might have protected my karma.  I might have thrown in an “I don’t know how it will go for me.” 

We were headed to a bridal shower for a long time friend of the family.  I rode in the back with my husband’s brother’s wife-to-be, Michelle.  In the front seat, my mother-in-law and her daughter, Susie, youngest of her three kids, youngest of her three picky eaters.  “What will there be to eat?” Susie asked.  “It’s a bridal luncheon in North Dakota,” we responded “what won’t there be to eat?”  “I don’t think I’ll like anything,” said S. “You’re right,” responded my mother-in-law, as she pulled up at the nearest Burger King.

Michelle and I rolled our eyes in the backseat.  We’d had this conversation before. Of course they’re picky eaters, we’d commented more than once of our significant others.  Obviously, we observed, it’s directly attributable to their mother for feeding them three different meals. ** We reached our destination and hung back on the way in. “I’ll tell you one thing,” I spit to Michelle, vehemently.  ”MY kids are going to eat what they’re served.”  “No kidding,” she agreed.  “No kidding.”  We congratulated ourselves on our superb parenting skills as we loaded up our plates with noodle salad.

“Stop howling,” I demand now, ten years later, as my brood whines and complains their way to the dinner table.  “Don’t throw your head on the table.  This is what’s for dinner,”  I’ll command at first.  But, within the hour I’ll be serving up an additional side of buttered toast and an apple.  Oh, I know what all the experts say.  Judge me if you will … but if I were you, I’d be cautious how you phrase it.

So, how about you?  Fill in your blank.  What is it that no kid of yours was ever going to get away with?! 

** Belated and sincere apologies to my lovely, wonderful mother-in-law, whose oldest grandson insists that she makes the best buttered toast this side of the Mississippi.