Words That Drive a Parent Crazy - What's For Dinner?

It's been a while since I shared an excerpt from my humorous memoir, A Dead Tomato Plant and a Paycheck. This is from the beginning of chapter fifteen: What's For Dinner or Mutiny of the Midgets. 

There are certain words and phrases in the English language, dirty words aside, that are guaranteed to disrupt the otherwise peaceful existence of any mother and drive her to the brink of insanity. Paramount in this area are the words, "What's for dinner'?"

At our house, this question was always asked at the most inconvenient times – at lunch before I'd even had a chance to mop up the soggy cheerios from breakfast, occasionally during dinner the night before, and once before I'd even had my morning coffee. Approaching me before coffee, by the way, had to be the epitome of curiosity, courage, and stupidity. I barely breathe before my morning caffeine, let alone answer a question, and the kid who was brave enough to tread where no others had ever trod was putting his life in jeopardy.

When the kids came home from school the first words out of their mouths would be, "What's for dinner?"
Every other year I might have gotten a "Hi, Mom" first, but I quickly learned not to let my emotional security hinge on whether or not that happened.

I can remember thinking how simple it would have been had they all waited until everyone was home and sent one delegate to ask the question instead bursting into my office every hour on the hour. Or I could have called a family conference and made a general announcement. Or made a recording and left the tape player handy so all they had to do was push a button to hear what was on the dinner menu.

Sometimes I’d decide it would be a terrific idea for them to be surprised once in a while. But when I suggested that they just wait and see, they’d act like I just invited them to experience Chinese water torture. And maybe it was agony for them not to know. They were pretty good at devising all sorts of sneaking-and-peeking games that usually left me with fallen bread, sticky rice, and an almost uncontrollable urge to scream.

It probably wouldn't have been so bad if I thought they were asking because they really cared about what I'd expended so much time and energy to prepare. But it was terribly deflating to be asked that question for the fifth time in a row and have to hear for the fifth time in a row, "Ugh! I hate stew."
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I hope you will come back tomorrow for the virtual blog party for the release of the new book by Alex J. Cavanaugh, CassaFire. He has lots of prizes for visitors and all the bloggers will be giving out virtual goodies. Come share in the fun.

Monday Morning Musings

 I haven't shared an excerpt from my humorous memoir,  A Dead Tomato Plant and a Paycheck, in quite a while, so I thought I would do that for today. I really can't do Monday Morning Musings because I am actually writing this on Sunday. Tomorrow I will be out of pocket all day.  Enjoy.....

Nothing is worse than having everyone in the family sick at the same time. At least when you take turns, passing a flu bug around like a hot potato, someone is always well enough to tend to the rest of the folks. But when everyone is sick, guess who has to grit her teeth and make chicken soup?

You guessed it. Mom.

One year was particularly bad at our house. I was on the losing side of a persistent flu bug that hung around for four or five weeks. And I used to think a 24-our bug was bad.

That particular run of the flu reached the point where the kids took numbers in the morning to see who would get to stay home from school that day.  I could only handle one or two sickies at a time, especially the sickies who didn’t act sick. Nothing was more wearing than a kid who threw up one minute and knocked his brother senseless the next.

Why couldn’t they take a cue from us adults and just stay on the couch in a semi-comatose position and just moan a lot?

And why did they have to eat. Imagine yourself with a stomach that feels like Mt. St. Helen's revisited, and the sweet aroma of chili dogs and nacho cheese chips comes drifting in from the kitchen. Have they never heard of chicken soup and weak tea?

Usually, when it came to the delicate art of juggling kids to see who got to stay home, my natural instincts served me well, but one day my judgment must have been clouded by my own raging fever. The kid I elected to keep home -- the kid who was at death's doorway with a terrible sore throat and a headache at eight in the morning -- spent half his day with his head out the door playing with the dog and the other half of the day fixing snacks. The kid who went to school with a vague complaint of a stomach ache was sent home right after the stomach ache voluntarily removed itself from the vague status.

And through it all, I spent a great deal of time on the sofa in a semi-comatose position, moaning a lot.

Trick or Treat

In honor of Halloween, I thought I'd share this excerpt from my humorous memoir, A Dead Tomato Plant and a Paycheck. 

Halloween is not like it used to be. With concerns over Politically Correct costumes, candy that has been tampered with, and who is that stranger driving slowly down the street, Halloween has lost some of the charm of my childhood. But it is still an event of magic and excitement and an opportunity for pure unadulterated fun.

It is also one time when I miss my kids the most.

We always took the holiday very seriously when the kids were young, spending weeks on costume preparations and decorating. "Carving The Pumpkin" was a family affair that took an entire evening and even dinner was suspended for preparations for Trick or Treating.

The year the twins were two, we thought it would be the perfect time for them to be totally swept up in the Halloween experience. The older kids were even willing to pare back their expectations of the most awesome costume so we could concentrate on the twins. We could all share vicariously in their excitement when we took to the streets.

Paul, being a generally easy-going kid, allowed us to dress him up in the cat costume that had originally been made for Anjanette ten years ago. Since it was yellow, he didn't seem to care that it had belonged to a girl first. He even sat quietly while we painted whiskers on his cheeks.

Danielle, however, had a hard time getting into the swing of things. She didn't want to put on her clown costume and balked at my attempts to put make-up on her face. She didn't want to go Trick or Treating and she didn't want to carry that brown paper bag. But after I forced her into the costume, smeared her face, and shoved her out the door with her bag she finally resigned herself to the indignity of it all.

After about an hour, Danielle had a complete change of heart. This was pretty cool going up to a house and having someone toss a candy bar into her bag. And she didn't have to do anything except say "thank you."
Another hour later, Paul's energy level was so low it dragged on the sidewalk along with the tail from his costume. Since both kids had bags that weighed more than they did, I thought it was the perfect time to go home. The older kids agreed; they were eager to go off with their friends. Paul agreed because he agreed to most anything those days. The only dissenter was Danielle. How could she pass up this mother-lode of candy?

I finally got her home, amid stares from neighbors whose expressions asked what terrible thing was I doing to this poor hapless child.

After a bath and a solemn ritual of exacting promises from the other kids that they wouldn't touch her bag of candy, Danielle was in bed. I collapsed on the couch for a five-minute break before tackling the clean up in the bathroom. Then I heard the soft shuffle of footsteps coming down the hall. I opened my eyes to see Danielle with an eager smile. "Can we do this again tomorrow?

What are some of your Halloween memories?

A Bit of Humor

This is another excerpt from my humorous memoir, A Dead Tomato Plant and a Paycheck. This is from the chapter: WHAT’S FOR DINNER? Or, Mutiny of the Midgets. Enjoy....

There are certain words and phrases in the English language, dirty words aside, that are guaranteed to disrupt the otherwise peaceful existence of any mother and drive her to the brink of insanity. Paramount in this area are the words, "What's for dinner'?" 

At our house, this question was always asked at the most inconvenient times – at lunch before I'd even had a chance to mop up the soggy cheerios from breakfast, occasionally during dinner the night before, and once before I'd even had my morning coffee. Approaching me before coffee, by the way, had to be the epitome of curiosity, courage, and stupidity. I barely breathe before my morning caffeine, let alone answer a question, and the kid who was brave enough to tread where no others had ever trod was putting his life in jeopardy.

When the kids came home from school the first words out of their mouths would be, "What's for dinner?"
Every other year I might have gotten a "Hi, Mom" first, but I quickly learned not to let my emotional security hinge on whether or not that happened.

I can remember thinking how simple it would have been had they all waited until everyone was home and sent one delegate to ask the question instead bursting into my office every hour on the hour. Or I could have called a family conference and made a general announcement. Or made a recording and left the tape player handy so all they had to do was push a button to hear what was on the dinner menu.

Sometimes I’d decide it would be a terrific idea for them to be surprised once in a while. But when I suggested that they just wait and see, they’d act like I just invited them to experience Chinese water torture. And maybe it was agony for them not to know. They were pretty good at devising all sorts of sneaking-and-peeking games that usually left me with fallen bread, sticky rice, and an almost uncontrollable urge to scream.

It probably wouldn't have been so bad if I thought they were asking because they really cared about what I'd expended so much time and energy to prepare. But it was terribly deflating to be asked that question for the fifth time in a row and have to hear for the fifth time in a row, "Ugh! I hate stew."

A Little Summertime Fun

Here is another excerpt from my humorous memoir, A Dead Tomato Plant and a Paycheck. Since most of us are still sweltering in the summertime heat, I thought I'd continue from the chapter Summertime Blues. Enjoy....

Another fun part of summer vacations were the skirmishes. Not a kind word could be heard from the troops as they squared off for another major battle over territorial rights in the bedroom. (Loosely translated, that meant which corner did Michael get to fill up with dirty socks?)

At times, there was so much snarling and growling going on, I was tempted to call in a lion tamer to restore peace and quiet.

 The skirmishes were caused by boredom. At least that’s what they always said, even though they had enough toys and games to outfit a small school. The daily lament was always, “There’s nothing to do.” To remedy that, I whipped out my list of odd jobs, saved for just such an occasion. Then they suddenly remembered a million things they simply had to do.

They had to practice their multiplication tables because their teacher told them to.

They had to sort their rock collection.

They had to help their friend get his shoe off the roof, and it might be an all day job because another kid keeps throwing the shoe back on the roof. (It only cost them a quarter to get the kid to work on his throwing arm.)

They promised the lady down the street they'd stand guard over her flowerbeds and catch the culprits who keep smashing her petunias.

This was when I got hit with a summertime problem much worse than grubs in my lawn, army worms devouring my garden, or the challenge of how we would pay our latest electric bill.

Although the latter did have a direct impact on this problem I called The Summertime Blues, more commonly known as, Would I Ever Make It Through The Next Six Weeks Until The Kids Went Back To School?

Six more weeks of carting them all over town to different activities to ward off the wave of boredom that threatened to overcome us. And with their unerring instinct of gratefulness, they threw a fit when I asked them to take their dirty socks off the kitchen table.

Six more weeks of, "It's too hot to mow the lawn." But they were willing to risk a heat stroke to ride their bikes up to the local supermarket for candy, or go to the park to play a game of baseball.

And somehow I always got elected to serve refreshments to the whole team.

Six more weeks of stupid, senseless, sibling in-fighting:
"Get your stinky foot out of my face!"
"You threw my shorts on the floor so you can just go pick them up."
“You always throw my clothes on the floor so I don t have to pick your stupid shorts up."
"If you turn that channel, I'll break your arm!"
"I want to watch something else."
"You always get to watch what you want to."
"Nuh-uh ... cause you're always watching your stupid shows."
"If you don't leave me alone, I'm going to punch your face in.”
"Mom! He's going to punch my face in."
"Move over, you're bumping me."
"If you touch me again, I'll break your finger."
"You don't scare me."
"Quit looking at me."
"Mom make him quit looking at me!"

Sometimes they covered all that on the first morning, which left them five weeks and six and a half days to think of new things to fight about.

Memoir Review

Not too long ago I received a review copy of The View from Brindley Mountain, A Memoir of the Rural South. I was anxious to read it for a lot of reasons.

First, because I have been reading a lot of memoirs lately to get a feel for how they are written as I work on mine. Secondly, because I love stories of the rural south. For some time now I have been reading some of the wonderful essays on a blog called The Dew and some of the writing is so eloquent it makes me stop and read a piece one more time.

When I saw the request for reviews by C. Eugene Scruggs, the author of The View From Brindly Mountain, I thought maybe his work would have some of that same southern charm.

I was disappointed.

Don’t get me wrong, the book has some good writing. The preface and prologue are engaging and read like a true memoir. However, as the book progresses, it turns into more of a history reference book than a memoir. There are lots of facts, some of them quite interesting if you are a history buff, but there is never enough of what these facts mean to the author or how they affected his life. Nor is there an overall theme that most memoirs usually have.

The reader is never really pulled into the scenes that Scruggs is relating. Rather, the reader stands outside looking in as Scruggs writes about what happened. How different from some engaging memoirs like Inklings by Jeffery Koterba and Eat, Pray and Love by Elizabeth Gilbert.

What about you? What kind of memoirs do you like to read? What makes a memoir work?

Family Fun

Another excerpt from my book in progress: A Dead Tomato Plant and a Paycheck. Enjoy....

On a recent visit with my grandchildren, I noticed a pattern of behavior that is apparently passed from generation to generation like the balding gene. My oldest granddaughter had been given a chore to do, as was her younger brother, and she spent more time policing him than folding the clothes.

Watching the push-pull between them, I was instantly transported back to when the same kinds of scenes played out between my children.

If I told Anjanette to empty the dishwasher, she would feel this compulsion to hound David to take care of the trash. Then if I'd tell David to clean up his room, he'd waste more time trying to recruit Michael's help than he actually spent in his room.

And I can remember being so frustrated when I'd tell one kid to do something, then hear him in the other room telling the other kids, "Mom told us to clean up the den."

Usually I tried to rise above some infantile level of response, but sometimes their behavior was contagious. I'd run into the den screaming, "I did not!"

Another common occurrence was for one of the kids to rush through his job and instead of making sure it was done right, he'd run to check on the other guy. Then he'd come to me with a smug expression to report that so-and-so didn't clean the bathroom right. He was crushed when my response was, "Well, you didn't do such a hot job in the kitchen, either."

I'm sure he expected nothing less than the total annihilation of that brother.

According to psychologists, this behavior is very normal among family members, and it does carry some fancy label. But we mothers recognize it as "pecking order." If you pay real close attention, it goes from older to younger much more often than from younger to older. And I've always felt a little sorry for the youngest in a family. There's no one left to "peck" on.

My grandson solved that problem by ordering the dog around for a while. It did seem to give him some satisfaction to "make" Arthur pick up his ball, and I wonder what kids do if they don't have a pet?