In the calm of Sunday morning, it’s hard to fathom why breakfast on Friday ended with such drama.
Is “drama” the world I want? Probably not. Probably “miserable pointless recrimination” and “classic case of a sweet scene turning sour” is more accurate.
Oh, and it had all started out so beautifully, too!
Early Friday the sky was overcast, if you remember, but the air was sweet with birdsong. Blossom petals drifted down. At home, coffee was percolating, the puppy was chewing a piece of rope, and the radio was bringing news of fresh disasters.
In a fit of domestic goddessliness I had decided to make a complicated breakfast. Crepes are a time-consuming child-pleaser if ever there were one, and as I stirred the batter I was smiling at the happiness my efforts would bring when everyone came down. As I turned the buttery crepes, I imagined my children as adults, reminiscing about the pleasure of coming down to breakfast when they were young.
Oh yes. What was it Robbie Burns wrote about the best-laid plans o’ mice an’ men going oft agley?
Boy, did my plans go agley. They broke the land-speed record for plans going agley.
“Humph,” said the first child to reach the kitchen. This child was disgruntled. It had not slept well. It didn’t want to go to school. Life had no savor for it.
“Crepes for breakfast!” I sang.
“Oh goodie,” it said, but its expression remained bleak.
Other children slowly came down in various states of humor. They were happy about the crepes, but not, shall we say, transformed. No one had slept well, it seemed.
The puppy walked around, wagging his tail. He at least was willing to go along with my plans.
“Please could you pass the lemon and sugar?” I heard someone say as I flipped crepes.
“I can’t reach them,” said someone else.
“Hey!” I said over my shoulder,” Be considerate.”
This was my first mistake. Left alone, the two children would have come to an arrangement, but I’d changed the dynamic.
“Please could you pass the lemon and sugar,” the first person repeated. The words shot out like bullets.
“I can’t reach them,” repeated the second, low and mean.
“Children!” snapped the crepe-maker, turning around in a sudden temper. This was my second (and third) mistake.
Generally speaking, children reject the concept of collective reprimand. Each tends to think in any dispute that he or she is in the right, and that, therefore, parents should yell only at others.
Saying “children” suggests that innocent parties are being traduced, and innocent parties can’t stand for that. Saying “children” in a sudden temper puts everyone on emotional alert.
Within seconds, sharp words were flying across the kitchen.
“Why are you blaming me?”
“She’s not blaming you.”
“You be quiet!”
The dog started barking.
“Why don’t you be quiet!”
“It has nothing to do with you!”
“Well we all have to listen, so it does have to do with us!”
“Watch out, the puppy!”
“Is it so hard to be considerate?”
“Is it so hard to reach over and get your own lemons?”
“He’s in the living room!”
“Why should I have to–”
“All over the carpet!”
Oh, it was bad. It was a bad, bad morning. As we drove to school, tempers finally off the boil and the mess in the living room cleaned up, I thought: We’ll mend things on the weekend. It’ll be calm then.
And what do you know? It is. Thank heavens.
Meghan Cox Gurdon’s column appears on Sunday and Thursday. She can be contacted at [email protected].
