Incoming (July 20, 2009. Issue 7.)

We were unusually quiet at the dinner table tonight. Normally all five kids were vying to relate some exciting story about their day. I, on the other hand, was never impolite at the table.

Being the oldest I did need to set a good example for the younger children. I was studiously concentrating on balancing my peas on my knife when...

“Incoming.”

The word registered on my brain just a millisecond too late and I was rewarded with a sickening splat as the projectile of mashed potatoes hit me in the chest.

Mom slammed down her fork and snapped, “Do not, I repeat, do not, start this tonight.”

“Incoming.”

This time my sister Beth was the recipient. Immediately she began bawling and mom gritted her teeth as she stared at her plate and continued eating.

I furtively loaded my spoon and flung the missile toward the instigator of this horrific dinner time display. Thwang. Away it went, missing my target by a mile and landing in the middle of my baby sister’s forehead. Daisy was undisturbed by her mishap and happily began smearing the mess across her face. Mom threw down her fork and stomped out of the room.

Within a few minutes, mashed potatoes were flying everywhere. They dripped down the walls and landed on the floor in gooey blobs. Everyone at the table had buttery globs all over them.

Mom returned with mop, broom and rags. She threw them down with a bang, which startled the baby and made her start screaming in unison with the still bawling Beth. (She always was such a stick in the mud)

“Clean it up. Nobody leaves this room until every bit of this mess is cleaned up, the dishes done, and there is peace and quiet in this house.”

“But mom . . . Dad . . . ” Winnie protested.

“But nothing. Clean it up or wear it to bed. That’s your choice. Richard, you should be ashamed of yourself. I cannot believe you would do such a thing. Oh for crying out loud. I can’t believe I just said something so stupid. Whatever got into me? Of course you would be the one to start something like this. To disrupt the only quiet meal we’ve had in weeks. To destroy what little is left of my sanity ”

“I hate mashed potatoes.”

“Then starve. Do you think I slave over a hot stove for hours because I enjoy it? Well I don’t. I would rather be out with my friends once in a while. I would like to go dancing, out to eat, even to a darn movie. Do you show any gratitude for all that I do? No, of course you don’t. You’re too busy teaching these children revolting manners.”

Mom’s exit from the room was magnificent. Dad looked sheepish then grinned.“Okay kids, let’s get this mess cleaned up. I think we made your mom mad.”

I sighed. Dad was the greatest. I loved him dearly and yes, I did join in the battle at the table, but he started it. Grownups are supposed to know better. At least that’s what I thought at the tender age of fourteen. Once I had become a sensible adult and had a family of my own, I discovered I was just like dad. Now my kids shake their heads and roll their eyes at my antics. I try really hard to maintain a sense of decorum around them, honestly I do but, the temptation to throw a chocolate kiss at one of the grand-kids or let them teach me to do the Macarena in the front yard is just too overpowering.

I saw my three-year-old granddaughter steal an Easter egg from her cousin’s basket yesterday and then crack it on his head and mash the mess into his hair. He screamed, she laughed and I beamed proudly. She’s a chip off the old block if ever there was one. Her mom just looked at me sadly.