My thumbs hook loosely in my belt loops, legs slightly bent with my knees outward, as I mosey up to the corral. Eyes swoop across the scene intensely, scanning the cold chestnut wood table, the white IKEA dinner plates, multicolored face wipers, drinks, utensils, three tiny outlaws prepared for battle in their designated cells, my fellow lawman poised for another defeat, and God forgive me… food.
With each step forward I mutter inaudibly to myself, thick western accent. Tonight, I will not be manipulated into saying how many bites they have to eat of each article of nutrition. STEP. Tonight, I will not give five-minute warnings. You do not eat, You do not eat. No Bloody extra time! STEP. Tonight, I will not beg and bribe with dessert. STEP. Tonight, I will not threaten irrationally their future diminished ability to grow. STEP. Tonight, I will not turn into my parents and remind them of the starving children around the world.
Reaching my place of order, my hands firmly grasp the corners as I slide into place, and utter one last… Tonight, I will not allow them to get under my skin and force me lose my temper.
Coolly my partner gives a nod. We got this! Tonight, we enjoy dinner!
“Alright,” I broker cheerfully and possibly, slightly irritating, “Let’s get passing those plates! Malcolm, how about a gravy burger?”
“Noooooo,” he drawls out, shaking his head and silently contorting his face at Wheels. The mutiny begins.
“Ok great! Here you go. One. Wheels?”
“Yes, please. Just one,” he replies in a tone reminiscent of witnessing the slow death of his favorite stuffed animal through the tortuous pulling of a snagged string, until all is lost.
“Ok. Great!,” my voice higher, squeakier, “Just one. Fantastic. Here you go.” His head has lowered to the table in despair. I ignore and my lips go dry from the plastered smile. “Let’s get those tatters and green beans passing. Alrighty. Here’s Stewie’s! Please pass it down, but DON’T help him.”
The unspoken and known law of dinner: Don’t touch Stewie’s plate, fork, or spoon; otherwise, refusal is immediate.
The daily debriefing about school, friends, work commences. My lips are moving, head nodding, but I am not consciously hearing the replies. All my senses have been hijacked for one purpose. An obsession I am trying desperately break, but these past years have only trained, created, nurtured this inescapable addiction to WHO is eating and WHO is NOT!
My peripheral angels betray me and spotlight their progress. Stewie is chowing. Whew. Wheels is eating, kind of. His fork is moving, his knife is almost sawing but he can’t take his eyes off of Malcolm.
Re-positioning toward David, who is answering one of my inquiries, I see Malcolm hasn’t touched his plate. As usual. Making goofy faces and talking Minion or Boss Baby quietly to Wheels, who can’t stop laughing, has become his sole aspiration. I feel a hot flash rising from the base of my spine. The child never eats until the rest of us are finished and then we all have to wait, and wait.
Chill, chill. They are kids. It is no big deal. Enjoy their company.
“I done. I, I feeeneshed,” Stewie declares, pushing his plate away as Wheels’ arm springs back dropping Stewie’s fork.
“What did you do?” I interrogate, panicky, “Did you touch him?”
“I was helping,” Wheels replies shrugging innocently, but the Smize in his eyes and brief flick to Malcolm reveals his intent to detonate Stewie.
My head shakes, and my shoulder tense. I feel the inner roar rising…
“I no need, I no want help,” Stewie says with a gesture equating to a snap. “No thank you,” he finishes catching my eye.
David places his hand on my arm and mouths Almost there. He’s right. It’s almost over. Another dinner, almost done. Twenty-five minutes of shear tension, resulting in two out of three kids plates, half to fully eaten, with no banishments is not bad. David finishes and I jump up triumphantly, “Let’s clean up! Bring those plates over!”
With that, the proverbial bullets begin to fly!
Malcolm looses his grip and pounces on his untouched, cold plate, fully covering its contents screaming, “NO, NO, I am so hungry no!!!! You can’t do it. NO, it’s not fair. How can… NOOOO!” He dramatically melts from his chair to the floor. Rolling, screaming, begging. Stewie walks up to him, assuming he is playing and drives both knees into the middle of Malcolm’s back. Angry, he tosses Stewie aside. Now both are crying, but hugging, saying sorry. Wheels defends his brother denouncing, “Mom, really should just work on making food you like.”
Having succumb to too many shots from all angles so quickly, David ushers the boys upstairs, and I know all are about to get an earful. All I can do is clear, for the exhaustion of preparing and enduring dinner is more than I can handle this Friday.
Retreating, I reclaim a moment to myself and call my mom for wisdom.
“Ma, this is really important. When did you and dad start enjoying dinner with us kids?”
“Oh,” she hesitated, “I’d say when everyone moved out.”
Mom-dern Vignettes 