Yesterday evening was no different from most others during the Pandemic. I stopped working at around 6pm, emerged from the cave I call my office, turned on the news and then headed to the kitchen to consider fixing dinner but more likely to dilly dally with little purpose. Little purpose is not really accurate -- I spend most of my time during the work-evening transition cleaning and picking up things, most of which I played no role in "misplacing." The kids were nowhere to be seen; but every once in awhile, I'd hear a reassurance that they were home -- I heard Ella singing from a different floor and Cal bounding up the stairs, likely ultimately to show me his latest Lego creation. Dan was in our room, aka his office, clear to me only because the door was still closed. Quiet, he was still working.
It was pretty nice, to be honest, different from the previous couple of weeks where I didn't work and spent a lot of "quality" time with the Leatherkids. I was surrounded by endless chatter and delivered constant reminders to put their snow gear away, to pick up their mess in the basement... in the hallway. I was a broken record. Did you put the pillows away? Don't take food downstairs... or upstairs. Throw your wrappers in the garbage. Brush your teeth. Hang up your towels... your snow pants... your jackets.
Yes, it was quiet during that work-evening transition yesterday. I had had a workday that left me feeling as though I hadn't had two weeks off, having picked up right where I had left off before the Holidays. To be fair, most others were in the same boat I was, having taken time off during the Holidays as well. I just didn't feel refreshed. I didn't feel like it was a new year. Everything felt the same.
I settled on chicken and potatoes. I knew I'd catch flack from the kids about it, but so be it. I had just put the potatoes in the oven to roast when Dan suddenly emerged from upstairs and announced that he was heading to my dad's. This was news to me. Unbeknownst to me, Dad needed help getting his new cable box hooked up and confirmed functional.
It would be the kids and I alone together for dinner, surely involving a battle or two. I was on my own to fight it, and this premonition didn't let me down. Just getting the kids to the dinner table, technically kitchen island, was a struggle -- it took only two calls to Cal but what might have been seventeen to Ella, who apparently was in the bathroom which I know oftentimes involves a Chromebook or an iPad. Neither liked my answer to "what are we having for dinner?" Frankly, I'm surprised they even ask anymore, unless they want me to suffer with their dramatic, that's-the-worst reaction. As expected, they groaned as the word "chicken" passed my lips. I even tried to sell it with "and the potatoes you like, Ellie." I don't know why I care and tried to spin it to be a good dinner in her eyes -- if I've learned anything during this Pandemic, other than how to wear a mask correctly, it's that my kids are tough to please with just about everything, food being the toughest. "It's too healthy," is their most common complaint. I take it as a compliment.
Dinner dished out, I spent the next 20 to 30 minutes encouraging them... convincing them... urging them to eat.
"Eat your potatoes."
"Eat some of your chicken."
"Finish your salad."
I uttered those phrases or variations of them over and over again for 20 to 30 minutes, with neither kid acknowledging me verbally and continuing to talk about whatever nonsense they were incessantly sharing, taking bites of their dinner here and there. I watched Cal drench his chicken in barbecue sauce and then saw the sauce that couldn't stick to the chicken because there was more sauce between it and the chicken seep through the corner of his lips and across his cheek. "Wipe your face," I insisted sternly. I had just scrubbed the spaghetti sauce that had been fingered on our cloth chair off of the chair and envisioned the same happening with this barbecue sauce. I watched Ella trim alleged fat from her chicken breast, a first for us, surprisingly. "That's not fat, Ellie," I insisted. "Eat your potatoes. Eat your salad." She did.
Getting her to eat the chicken would be a losing battle, and one that I didn't want to pick. "Okay, put the chicken in a container, and you'll eat it tomorrow," I said. "Dad and I will have steak, Cal will have whatever he wants, and you'll eat your leftover chicken." I told HER. I got no complaints, but I'm sure she figured she'll avoid it altogether. She usually does -- it's just too tough a battle among many others that I perceive as more important.
Dishes washed, leftovers packed and put in the fridge and Cal asking for hot chocolate, a request that I deferred for later, I made the mistake of going to the basement to clear some space for Christmas decorations. It was a disaster, not the worst I've seen, but it was bad enough. Pillows were everywhere, Legos were spilling out of the bedroom that had become their new home, random things were in my workout space, and socks and sweatshirts were strewn in the same place I'd seen them since Christmas. It was enough to set me off in the moment.
Ella was in the shower, but Cal had made the mistake of following me down to tell me something, I can't remember what. It was innocent, and he didn't expect the response he got, the sole catcher of the brunt of my tantrum. It started with the bed pillows from the spare bedroom, aka Lego room. With two that had been retrieved from the floor not in the bedroom in my hand, I gave Cal a piece of my mind.
"I just don't get it. How hard is it just to put these back where you got them? I'm so tired of this. It's the same thing over and over again." I dropped an f-bomb for effect. "Why don't you guys learn? Why don't you get it? What's so hard to understand?" He gave the appearance of listening, wide-eyed and acknowledging he was at fault and deferring no blame to Ella even though I knew she had been involved.
"New rule." These moments almost always introduce a new rule. "Don't take it out if you don't know that you'll put it back. If you take these pillows out and don't put them back, no Legos for you for a period of time. No iPad for Ella. I don't know how long, but I'll determine that later." He understood and believed it just about as much as Ella believed I'd be forcing her to eat leftover chicken tonight.
I moved out of the bedroom. More pillows, notably the pillows I've been putting in a corner to get rid of and that get pulled out time and time again despite my please that they be left alone. "And these pillows? Why are they here?" Cal had started picking them up. He knew where I was headed but I said it anyway, "What did I say about these pillows?" He glanced over at what will surely now be known the pillow chair in the corner. "Right. Leave them on THAT chair. I'm so tired of going through this over and over again."
The pillows to be donated on their designated corner chair, we both picked up more pillows and put them on the couch. My focus changed. "And these sweatshirts? Take them upstairs," and I tossed them over the couch and to the base of the stairs. And then I tossed Ella's random sock... and pencil case. "And whose ruler is this?" It was Ella's, and it went flying, too.
"Get your Legos off that chair and move it back where it belongs," Cal went to work on that next. "And this chair," I said as I moved it myself. "Do you still use this?" I asked as I moved the trampoline we got Ella when she was maybe three. It was becoming an opportunity to get rid of stuff.
Cal headed upstairs with his sweatshirts as I finished picking up the few remaining misplaced items in the basement. I then headed upstairs myself, still tense and fuming, the effects of my tantrum.
When I got upstairs, I don't remember how he asked me, but it wasn't strong -- Cal needed help with the hot chocolate he had asked to have after dinner. Wisely, he was treading lightly, yet boldly by simply asking me for help with it. He didn't know how I'd react. Surprisingly, I helped, but in such a way as to teach him what is really a simple task. Put water in this teapot, put it on the stove and wait for it to whistle. Pour it on your chocolate powder in your cup. Be careful because it'll be hot. I then headed to do what started me down this path, which was to get the Christmas decorations downstairs.
The kid didn't offer me any help. He's clueless, really. And I didn't ask for any. Maybe I'm clueless, too. After several trips down with a load of stuff and back up for more, I emerged from my to-do to find Cal sitting on the couch and sipping hot chocolate from a spoon. I tensed up again.
"Mom, look!" he exclaimed. "I'm using a coaster!"
His timing is awful, yet perfect. I smiled and gave him a ridiculous, over-the-top amount of praise, complete with clapping and cheering and "I'm so proud of you," all the while envisioning hot chocolate dripping from the spoon or the cup and onto the same table he was protecting with a coaster. I opted to let it lie and enjoy the levity of his comment. I'd clean it up later.
