“Okay, guys, who’s going to help me make the beef stew for dinner?”
“Not me.”
“Not me.”
“This reminds me of a story about The Little Red Hen.”
“This reminds me,” says Irene, “of a story about a girl with nothing to do with her brother.”
Touché.
***
Mary is bouncing in her high chair
As I hand Colum and Irene a bowl of grapes.
“Make sure you don’t let Mary have any grapes,” I warn.
“They are the perfect size and shape to get caught in her windpipe and to stop her from breathing.
Even toddlers need them cut in half.”
“Right, ” says Colum.
“That would make a baby die. Well, first they would choke and then they would die.
Isn’t that right, Mom? They would choke first and then die?”
“Uh, I guess that’s right.”
God forbid we leave out a step.
We have those ubiquitous Ikea plastic bowls in the assorted colours along with a couple other stray plastic bowls. But I don’t like using them for hot food. Then we have lots of grown-up sized bowls that go with the set of everyday dishes we got as a wedding present. We have some little Japanese-style rice bowls that I often use for the kids, two shallow bowls that say “pasta” on them, two small blue bowls and one Royal Doulton Bunnykins bowl. You can see where this is going.
The bowl is actually Colum’s. He got it as a gift for his first birthday or his baptism or something, back when he was our one and only. Irene, of course, LOVES that bowl more than anything and Colum is kind enough to let her use it sometimes. They take turns, is the theory.
Yesterday Irene helped me put together the first lentil stew I’ve made in years. I even boiled some lentils plain for baby Mary. I reached for the bowls and … they were almost all dirty. I had one clean Japanese rice bowl and the Bunnykins. I spooned some stew into each and set the Bunnykins at Irene’s place. Colum then complained that it was his turn for the bowl and if there are two things you can count on in this world they that kid’s sense of fairness and his impeccable memory.
So I tried to switch bowls.
There was screaming and crying. There was foot stomping and full-on thrashing on the kitchen floor. There was begging and pleading and hands thrown up in frustration and, you guessed it, Irene wound up with the bowl.
Irene sat up at the table with Colum’s Bunnykins bowl full of delicious (if I don’t say so myself) lentil stew and refused to try even one bite. She ate toast with butter and drank her milk and would not deign to place a solitary lentil in her mouth. Not one stinking lentil, people!
“That’s it,” I said. “If you don’t at least try your dinner tonight, I’m going to cook this every night until you do.”
So, guess what I’m making for dinner tonight?
I pick up the plate of orange peels
And step over the pile of kids’ clothes, mini dinosaurs and sports cards.
“I’m just going to tidy up and then we’ll pick up Colum from the school bus and check out a new park.”
Irene looks at me.
“But when are we going to go to the sabanah?”
” …. “
I realize that Zabumafu is on TV.
“Do you mean the savannah? The African savannah?”
“Yes, that’s what I mean.”
“Well, I don’t know, sweetie. I’ve never even been to the savannah. It’s far away across the world.”
Looking at me and batting her eyelashes,
“Pleeeeeease.”
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