Friday, October 01, 2004
Dinnertime
So much material; so little time to write.
Tuesday afternoon was our annual flea extermination appointment, a high priority in our house. After the treatment, I'm required to keep everyone out of the house for an hour. Since I'm still not keen on taking both boys out by myself, my choices were limited. Max was begging to go to Patisserie, which is exactly where I would have loved to go. We all had to settle for the Starbucks drive-through, where I could get a cookie for Max and a much-needed latte for me. And then we drove.
As I write this to you in Seattle, it's occuring to me what a quintessentially Texan kind of thing this is to do. It was 4:30 in the afternoon. It was over 90 degrees. I had both kids. So we remained in the air-conditioned bubble of the car. I actually use this as a tactic now, driving aimlessly around Houston until Max nods off, then coming home and carrying his limp body to his bed. Perplexed by my random detours (since he knows, more or less, how we get from one place to another), I have to fend off his inquiries as we drive round and round: "Where are we going, mommy? Are we going home, mommy?" And eventually, if I'm lucky, Max succumbs to sleep.
On Tuesday, I was fortunate. Max was out at around 5:00. Two hours later, when Lee and I were ready for dinner, Max was still asleep. Because the following day was a school day, and Max would have to be up early, Lee woke him for dinner. He showed up in the kitchen looking dazed and grumpy. Initially he demanded that his dinner be served at the island, not the kitchen table. That was fine with me. Then when the rest of us sat down at the table, he wanted to join us. That, too, was fine with me. Here's how the rest of the meal unfolded:
Max: I want some ketchup on my meatloaf.
Me: Look, Max, there's ketchup right there on top of your meatloaf.
Max: No, mommy, I want more ketchup. (Max is a true ketchup-lover. Sometimes I think he likes french fries because they are an efficient delivery mechanism for ketchup.)
Me: Okay, Max (I squirted ketchup on the side of the meat).
Max: No, I want it on the top.
Me: Okay (squirting more on top).
Max: No, mommy, I want some more.
Me: Okay, Max.
Max: Feed me, mommy.
I cut a bite-sized piece of meat and held it in front of Max's mouth.
Max: No, mommy, not there. I want it with ketchup.
Me: See, Max, there's ketchup on this bite.
Max: No, mommy, I want it from the top.
Me: Okay (I try to wrest a ketchup-laden piece from the top of the slice)
Max (beginning to disintegrate): No, mommy, not like that. Like this. (He makes a sweeping motion across the top of the meat.)
Me: Okay, Max. (I try to emulate his motion.)
Max (with more whining): No, mommy, not like that. Like this.
I try again, to no avail.
Max (overflowing with rage): No mommy! Like this!
Me: Max, I'm frustrated and confused. I'm trying my best to give you what you want, but I just don't know how. Now you'll have to do it yourself. (I relinquish the fork to him.)
Max (eating his pineapple): Mommy, I need more meat.
Me: You have meat on your plate, Max. Eat that meat first.
Max: No, mommy, I need more meat. This meat has too much ketchup.
And with that, Lee and I exploded with laughter.
Tuesday afternoon was our annual flea extermination appointment, a high priority in our house. After the treatment, I'm required to keep everyone out of the house for an hour. Since I'm still not keen on taking both boys out by myself, my choices were limited. Max was begging to go to Patisserie, which is exactly where I would have loved to go. We all had to settle for the Starbucks drive-through, where I could get a cookie for Max and a much-needed latte for me. And then we drove.
As I write this to you in Seattle, it's occuring to me what a quintessentially Texan kind of thing this is to do. It was 4:30 in the afternoon. It was over 90 degrees. I had both kids. So we remained in the air-conditioned bubble of the car. I actually use this as a tactic now, driving aimlessly around Houston until Max nods off, then coming home and carrying his limp body to his bed. Perplexed by my random detours (since he knows, more or less, how we get from one place to another), I have to fend off his inquiries as we drive round and round: "Where are we going, mommy? Are we going home, mommy?" And eventually, if I'm lucky, Max succumbs to sleep.
On Tuesday, I was fortunate. Max was out at around 5:00. Two hours later, when Lee and I were ready for dinner, Max was still asleep. Because the following day was a school day, and Max would have to be up early, Lee woke him for dinner. He showed up in the kitchen looking dazed and grumpy. Initially he demanded that his dinner be served at the island, not the kitchen table. That was fine with me. Then when the rest of us sat down at the table, he wanted to join us. That, too, was fine with me. Here's how the rest of the meal unfolded:
Max: I want some ketchup on my meatloaf.
Me: Look, Max, there's ketchup right there on top of your meatloaf.
Max: No, mommy, I want more ketchup. (Max is a true ketchup-lover. Sometimes I think he likes french fries because they are an efficient delivery mechanism for ketchup.)
Me: Okay, Max (I squirted ketchup on the side of the meat).
Max: No, I want it on the top.
Me: Okay (squirting more on top).
Max: No, mommy, I want some more.
Me: Okay, Max.
Max: Feed me, mommy.
I cut a bite-sized piece of meat and held it in front of Max's mouth.
Max: No, mommy, not there. I want it with ketchup.
Me: See, Max, there's ketchup on this bite.
Max: No, mommy, I want it from the top.
Me: Okay (I try to wrest a ketchup-laden piece from the top of the slice)
Max (beginning to disintegrate): No, mommy, not like that. Like this. (He makes a sweeping motion across the top of the meat.)
Me: Okay, Max. (I try to emulate his motion.)
Max (with more whining): No, mommy, not like that. Like this.
I try again, to no avail.
Max (overflowing with rage): No mommy! Like this!
Me: Max, I'm frustrated and confused. I'm trying my best to give you what you want, but I just don't know how. Now you'll have to do it yourself. (I relinquish the fork to him.)
Max (eating his pineapple): Mommy, I need more meat.
Me: You have meat on your plate, Max. Eat that meat first.
Max: No, mommy, I need more meat. This meat has too much ketchup.
And with that, Lee and I exploded with laughter.
1 Comments:
Oh, poor mommy. Some days it must seem like you can't do anything right. I laughed out loud at that one.
When I was living in Boston, I think I was the only person in my crowd who had an air-conditioned car, and none of us had AC in our apartments. So, on more than one hot humid summer day, we'd go driving in my car. We would usually pick a destination - someplace like a movie theater (for the AC) - but driving around in cool comfort was part of the experience.
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