Mom-n-Me Breakfasts

      It isn't always easy being part of a big family.  There is always someone older or younger than you, more needy, louder, bigger, or faster.  Sometimes your voice is lost in the crazy swelling orchestra of brothers and sisters stretching up and out.  There are dentist appointments, baseball games, and school carnivals.  Sometimes it seems there is never enough to go around.  Not enough time or energy.  Not enough listening.        
     In this big family of ours we have a strategy for stretching that precious listening time.  On Thursday mornings before school I rouse one of our four children and we go to breakfast at a local diner on the island where we live.      It is a school day.  We have routines ahead of us, but what makes the day special is life set aside for a few hours.  We eat an extravagant breakfast and I listen to each child, one Thursday at a time, with undivided attention.  I say little about table manners (although it is tempting), and I don't take advantage of the warm feeling between us to discuss the friction or issues I may have with a child.  I simply listen.      
     One Thursday morning at the diner I watched our thirteen-year-old son jitter his knees and roll his neck to some weird inner music.  He dropped silverware on the floor, speculated how to make earrings out of empty Tabasco jars, and wiggled a loose tooth over and over.  Ben ordered soda pop instead of orange juice and a huge ham and cheese omelet that he tried to cram into his mouth in three bites.       I didn't say a word.  I couldn't decide if I should laugh or scream SIT STILL!  But then something happened:  the ghost of Norman Rockwell whispered in my ear asking me to look at this live wire half-grown boy as if he weren't mine.  As if he were the subject for a magazine cover.   I saw a lovable knucklehead with big feet.  The image made me smile.      
     “MOM!! A HUGE WEASEL!”  Ben yelled around a half a piece of toast stuffed in his mouth. 
     I wiped the smatter of his toast crumbs from my face and looked through the window onto the street where he was pointing.  A river otter.  It was a wild and sleek otter strolling down Main Street at seven thirty in the morning.  There were eight of us eating at the restaurant that morning and we all rose from our chairs as if from pews in a church and walked outside with the cook.   We watched this wondrous spectacle on an ordinary morning until the otter disappeared down a ravine that led to the harbor.        
     We returned to our breakfast, but nothing was the same.  Ben had led ten pairs of adult eyes to a river otter on Main Street.  We were too busy reading the newspaper, drinking our coffee, or thinking of ways to put a lid on a boy's goofy energy to notice the miracle right before us.  Blink! and it was gone.  As fast as a thirteen-year-old boy would be grown and gone.      
     Thursday mornings at the diner live long past a few hours for us.  It is body and soul time.  Beginning with a good cup of coffee with endless refills for me.  This is necessary if your daughter wants to talk about friend problems.  Sip listen.  Sip listen.  She can indulge in a cup of hot chocolate herself.  Feel better and decide that one good friend is worth three flighty ones.  She orders a hot and tender waffle with real maple syrup and orange juice (sensible girl).  I have my usual, the Morning Saute.  It is a deliciously vigorous mix of sautéed spinach, mushrooms, green onions and tomatoes over two poached eggs on toast. We look at the clock and linger over our hot drinks until it is time to drive to school.       Ten-year-old Nick orders bacon and eggs every time.  Nicky feels he is too old to play with the box of Mr. Potato Head pieces available for restless kids, but he will watch other children play with confused longing (I'm big.  I'm little.  I'm Nick.  I'm Nicky).  Our Thursday mornings together are gloriously simple.  He's TEN.  He loves eggs over easy and Mom and Dad.  Mind and body are perfectly synchronized before the surrender of common sense and stability to preadolescent hormones (Nick has two other brothers smack in the middle of that dangerous territory; I silently beg him to play with Mr. Potato Head).      
     The gourmand of the tribe is Daniel.  He is an accomplished cook in his own right with an adventuresome palate.  Daniel most often orders the morning special---this morning an egg scramble with mushrooms, jack cheese and basil.  He chooses the biscuit and douses it heavily with butter and jam. The muffins are flavored with seasonal berries and not too sweet.  Daniel approves.  We study for a test on Africa between the hot chocolate and the eggs.  "What is the capital of Liberia?" I ask him.  "Hmmmmm. . . " Daniel muses,  "Liberate men roving--Liberia, Monrovia!"  That's my mnemonic boy.
     Our island diner may not be in your neighborhood, but most likely there is a warm and intimate place washed in the good smells of something baking near you.  Patronize it.  The neutral territory of a cafe is a safe place for uncovering all the interesting, sad, unique thoughts of a child that can spiral past us at home.  My parenting downshifts, I am able to feel tenderness for a moment.  Maybe realize that all this growing up before me is fast.  Fleeting.  Thursday morning is a chance to savor my daughter, my sons, before the mind fades away to another load of laundry, another meal made.  On Thursday mornings my eyes are opened to the miracles in each child.

Comments

[nike air max 2012]

Awesome read, i was speaking to a friend the other week about the same topic and gave him this site to visit.

[Patricia]

I love to read this post. I return to it often. Your imagination and use of language is healing.
Thanks!

[jenny]

Precious, tender and one of the best ideas ever:)

[Gardengal]

Such a great entry. I had just told my husband I needed to start doing something with our 6 year old that was just "mom" and "son". This is exactly how I needed to hear it.

Brought some tears to my eyes too! Thank you for your thoughts.