October 20, 2010
Dinner is important to me.
And not because of the food.
Although it certainly helps.
Of late I've noticed a new and somewhat disturbing trend.
There are many evenings where dinner is a combination of the five of us, but rarely all five of us are at the table at the time.
Work, classes, spending time with friends means that I can no longer be guaranteed that all my chicks will be in the nest for dinner.
There was a time when I could tell you exactly where the kids and I were going to be at ANY time of the day, and day of the week.
Our lives were that predictable.
Lately I have had to accept that there are more times than not where I don't know where they are.
Or what they're doing.
Luckily for me, my children are very open about their activities, and they are more than willing to spill their guts.
As honest children, they have no compunction to hide their noctural undertakings from me.
And even if they thought they could, I have my ways of finding out what they've been up to.
Which does not include interrogating their friends, in a locked basement, Frankie held back from attack with a chain one centimeter shorter than it needs to be to ensure complete bodily dismemberment, Reilley on the water heater holding their eyes open with thread, while Tikka mans the maglight shining directly into their never-blinking eyes, with their hands secured behind their backs with duct tape, feet afixed to the chair legs, a bucket of cat urine precariously perched above their head, secured only with a line of dental floss, Goblet at the ready to release it at the first hint of a lie.
I have much simpler methods of divining for the truth.
Facebook.
I can see all of their high jinx, escapades, capers in a technicolor spectacle as extravagent and florid as a Picasso painting.
Even if I don't want to see their antics.
There is something about perusing your Facebook and seeing your son passed out on the floor of his sister's kitchen, nestled snugly between the fridge and the cupboards.
Or your oldest daughter wrapped around her boyfriend like bacon around a filet mignon, while she sports double lazy eye because she's tired and drunk, that makes you wonder about whether the internet really was a good idea.
This isn't to say that I didn't engage in my own alcohol-induced shenanigans.
I most certainly did.
And in spite of Herculian efforts on my part, I can't seem to rid them from my memory.
The difference between now and then, between me and them: there are no pictures, no evidence, nothing but my own memories, and only me to tell them.
Should I choose to tell them.
And THAT isn't likely.
On the other hand, my kids are going to have to live with these pictures for the rest of their lives.
With lots of people to tell stories.
And from my experience, at some point, when you least expect it, while your guard is down, and you think everything is fine. . .
Shit comes back to haunt you.
Weddings, for example.
And my kids should remember that I have the capacity to remember things that don't relate to me, very, very well.
Also, it's not wise to think that just because I tolerate the things my children do, I condone them.
Big difference between tolerance and condoning.
However, I know that telling them not do something is the fastest way for them to do it.
Especially with Mer.
As soon as she hears the words, "don't" she is off, racing to do whatever I said she shouldn't do.
And she has been that way since conception.
Not birth.
Conception.
My kids know how I feel about the things they do.
They know the difference between tolerating and condoning.
And they know what will happen if they cross the lines I've established.
Remember the scenario in the basement???
Dinner.
Tonight was one of those rare occasions when the planets and stars aligned, the karmic cosmic forces were co-operating, and all the kids, me and Stephen were present and accounted for at the dinner table.
Sitting around the table, Mer opposite me and Stephen, Emily at one end of the table, Keith at the other, Stephen and I sitting beside one another.
Dogs hovering around each side of Mer, assuming that she would be sympathetic enough to sneak food bits to them.
Reilley, in "his" chair, beside Emily, sitting, waiting for her to openly include him in the family meal.
He talks, contributes to the conversation, puts his two cents in.
And if Em isn't quick with the food, he will put his front paws on the table, for balance, and with his left paw, he will guide Em's fork to his face to ascertain whether or not the food she is eating is up to her standards.
Frustrated, I usually take something off my plate, put it in front of him, and watch him scoff it down as if he hadn't eaten a meal in his entire life.
There is NO ignoring Reilley.
Ignoring him is simply not part of his frame of reference.
And he'll make damn sure it isn't part of ours either.
He is clever, cute and ferocious rolled into one furry, six toed, eight pound package.
Dinner together is one of those things where there is no negotiation.
If you are at home, or not at work, or not in classes or out with you're friends, you ARE having dinner with me.
At the table.
None of this buffet line dinners where everyone collects their meal and disperses to the far corners of the house to eat while you watch AMC Fear Fest, or your dvds of every season of The Family Guy.
Or worse, The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air.
Until reaching the tender of age of 16, where their evil and child-labour exploitative mother forced them out the couch and into the world of part time labour, dinner was the one time of day I knew without questions we would be together, sitting around the table, not distracted by computers or televisions, homework or housework, house phones or cell phones, felines or canines. . .
Just together.
I may be waxing nostalgia here, but I have relatively fond memories of those times.
Although I'm certain it didn't feel like that at the time.
Every evening, we'd sit around the table, the four of us, together.
But don't think it was the Leave it to Beaver kind of together.
It was kids fighthing, arguing, complaining about not liking whatever I had manage to put together after a day of being in classes and researching or writing for my dissertation.
My attempt to bring order to chaos was to give each of the kids an opportunity to share what they had done during their day.
Mer believed she had to be first, because she was at the top of the birth heirarchy.
She would share with us the events of her day with a dizzying drama she must have inherited from her father.
Technically, if we were following birth order, we should assume that Pookie was next.
Not so.
But we'll get to that in a minute.
Emily would be next, and even though she was much younger than Mer she would rightfully insist on her floor time.
And Em may be quiet, but like Reilley, she has always been able to make her point, have her say, ensure she has a voice.
No matter how hard Mer tried to silence her.
Keith. Pookie. Pookie Pot Pie with Bum Dumplings. Keith Ronald Alexander Van Every the third Van Every (that's what he'd say, when he was younger, if you asked him his name.)
When it was his turn to tell me about his day, he took me literally.
Keith: "I opened my eyes when you came into my room and turned on the light. You said, "Good morning Pookie. Time to get up." I said, "Okay" and then I got out of bed and and put my slippers on. I went downstairs to the bathroom, and had a pee. I then went to the kitchen and you asked me what I wanted for breakfast. I said cereal and juice. You gave me a bowl of Shreddies and a glass of orange juice. I ate my breakfast with Mer and Emily. They didn't have Shreddies. Emily had toast and peanut butter and Mer had Rice Krispies. After I ate breakfast, I went back to the bathroom and brushed my teeth. Then I went upstairs and got dressed. . . ."
You can see how this played out.
I never said anything. He just shared his little heart out.
He still does.
But unlike Mer, he selectively shares.
Mer just tells me everything.
Em tells me everything, or close to everything, without inducing paralyzing trauma.
Dinner together now is not much different than it was when they were younger.
With the exception of Stephen.
And he experiences a full-fledged family feast with equal amounts of entertainment and overwhelmingness.
The kids are a lot louder now, especially if Mer has managed to participate in under-the-deck activities prior to consumption of my gastronomical gala.
Last night was one of those nights.
Mer was giddy, silly, loud.
Keith followed suit even without engaging in under-the-deck-action.
Emily observed, as she usually does with wry amusement.
Stephen enjoyed their convivial conflabbing.
But after a while, his peace and quiet loving sensibilities rage against the rauchous cacophany and he retired upstairs for a few blissful moments.
Me, I love the chaos.
I'm used to it.
And honestly, I wouldn't want it any other way.
Title Lyric: Digsy's Dinner by Oasis
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