So, last night, the 6 year old and I had it out. This happens from time to time. Sometimes, it can be frustrating. Sometimes, it can be an effort in Herculean self-control not to say what I really think…and sometimes, some VERY special times, I make myself laugh. Hysterically. No joke.
Last night was one of those very special times. My daughter (who incidentally believes she is the Queen Bee in the house and is approximately going on 36 years old), has gotten quite sassy in the last few months. She’s testing the waters of her self-assuredness, which all things considered is very apropos for her age and totally understandable. I do not however, have to like what is being said, or more officially the tone of disrespect with which it is being said. You got it. My house is militant…and I am the Drill Sergeant. I fancy myself being a relatively “decent to good” type of parent.
“Go ahead kid and assert your authority, make your decisions, but here’s this line in the sand. Be careful not to cross it.”
For the last few weeks, I have been wracking my brain AND pocketbook in an attempt to make new dinners. Something that would be tasty enough for us grownups to actually stomach, but mute enough and visually pleasing so that little kids might venture a forkful into their mouths. Every night, every new creation has been greeted with various disdain from the peanut gallery. One night it just became too much to bear.
“Why did you make that? I’m not eating it. I don’t want to try it. Can’t you just make something you know I like? I’m just sick and tired of eating this stuff.” I had had enough. Something inside me snapped…a rant of monumental proportions bubbled up.
”Really? REALLY?!?! This is what you’d like to pick a fight about? Trust me, I’m going to win this one… Every day, I go to work. I earn a modest amount of money. That salary buys the groceries that I go to the store to shop for. Those foodstuffs go into the wonderful dinners that I lovingly prepare for this family. They have each of the four food groups, and no, I’m not talking about Go-gurt, Pop-Tarts, Frosting and Dino chickens…. Every night I try to make something else I think you MIGHT eat due to the fact that you’ve near refused everything else I’ve ever served you. Since you really seem to be a Master Chef, worthy of Chef Gordon Ramsey’s approval – I revoke all my cooking AND comestibles shopping duties unto you. I expect no less than I give, which means: I want 14 different dinners (planned out for every day for the next two weeks), the edibles shopped for and purchased in the confined restriction of our budget , and all of those hot piping meals on the table by no later than 5:45pm.”
I’m sure I’m not the first and I’m certain I won’t be the last parent to ever have this conversation. My daughter stared up at me. I decided to be on the same level. I stopped setting the table and sat down in a chair in the living room. My husband was humming to himself and filling his glass of water in the kitchen.
Oddly, the kid didn’t get the hint and kept right on going, “I don’t want to do all that. I just would like it if you would stop making these (said with loathing) dinners and make only what I like…”
The most bizarre thing happened just then. I am still not quite sure what came over me. Maybe it was the Gambler himself. I can’t be certain. I started to sing. Loudly, and most certainly off-key. “You got to know when to hold them. Know when to fold them. Know when to walk away – Yeah, that means you kid…Know when to run. You never kick the cooker, when it’s time to come to dinner. There’ll be time enough for role reversal, when you’re all grown up.”
Quite possibly, there was a snort of laughter from the kitchen, I can’t be sure. My daughter looked at me again, “I just lost, didn’t I?”
“You did. Now, wash up for dinner and not another word.” I slowly sashayed into the dining room, muttering to myself: If you're gonna play the game, kid…You gotta learn to play it right.
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