“I‘m sooooo hungry.” “We’re starving, seriously!”
“You are not starving. It’s only another hour. You’ll live.”
The scene was a corporate-style hallway, bland and carpeted and lined with closed doors. At tables against one wall, clusters of children sat with custodial adults. The children did homework, gazed into space, and, as we have heard, griped about famine conditions.
Through the windows of the doors, if you stood on tiptoe and peeked in, you would see children bent over cellos and violins and guitars under the eyes of various teachers. The soundproofing was a bit haphazard; strains of music crept into the hallway, and they were pleasant to hear.
“I’m sooooo hungry,” the small child repeated, lolling in her chair.
Like the other children in the quiet hallway, she was a casualty of a vast after-school world of activities and “enrichment.” That some children may pursue ballet or martial arts or the piccolo often requires other children — usually siblings — to hang around during the lesson, waiting. It’s not necessarily squandered time; a kid can always catch up on homework, or do a bit of daydreaming, but when a person is hungry or unwell it can feel like an eternity of tedium.
Tedium is not without its uses, of course. A certain amount of it makes for a better childhood by setting the jollier times in greater relief. Also, waiting while a family member pursues an interest also drives home in a silent way the fact that a person’s own preferences are not always the most important consideration. Children who learn to tolerate a moderate amount of abnegation, it seems to me, will find life’s inevitable small compromises less traumatic.
Still, it’s one thing to wait for your sister’s voice lesson to finish and it’s another to starve to death.
“There is a vending machine,” the mother said, taking pity, “but we need coins.”
Alas, she had only three quarters and a $5 bill. She needed another quarter or a $1 bill to get the cheapest item, a bag of peanuts. Off she went, in search of change, and back she came, empty-handed.
At the next table, another mother was fretting. She needed coins too, and fast, because her parking meter had almost run out.
“Well, take my coins,” said the first woman. “They’re not enough to buy us food but they’ll save you a ticket.”
“Really? Thank you!” said the second, and she dashed out of the building.
Everyone else settled back down to homework and suffering. A moment later, the woman came back and noiselessly placed a dollar bill on the table.
“Look what I just happened to find in my car,” she grinned.
Hurrah! So it was a small bag of peanuts was procured and divided into tiny, life-saving portions. An eternity later, the voice lesson finished. Young songbirds came laughing into the hallway.
“How was your class?” asked the peanut-mother.
“It was great!” cried the musician.
Then she saw the salty, empty cellophane and her face clouded over, as at a betrayal.
“Aw, you guys had peanuts? No fair!”
Meghan Cox Gurdon’s column appears on Sunday and Thursday. She can be contacted at [email protected].
