LJ Idol Season 10, Week 3: Brushback Pitch
Dear Diary,
I had one of those mornings again.
“Matt, what do you want for breakfast?” People keep telling me not to let him decide. Just cook and he’ll eat it. And sometime I do. Sometimes, I just want oatmeal or I’m really craving an omelet, so that’s what we eat. Most mornings, I don’t care. And I know he’s going to say pancakes. I’m not sure if he really likes pancakes or just likes to make pancakes. Breakfast, lunch, or dinner, though, if I ask, he’ll tell me pancakes.
“Pancakes!”
I check the fridge. Milk - check. Butter - check. Syrup - check. Eggs, of course. My chickens are just now slowing down (I’m getting four or five eggs a day instead of twenty four or twenty five), but I’ve got a pretty decent stock pile. Bacon - check.
“Okay. What else?”
“Bacon! And yolky eggs!”
“How many eggs?”
“Too much.”
“One or two?”
“Both of them.”
I decide on two. If he doesn’t eat them, I can feed them to the cats.
The cooking of the breakfast goes much more smoothly than normal. While he insists on mixing the pancake batter, he doesn’t want to crack eggs today, so I don’t have to dig shells out of the batter. He also wants to flip his own pancakes, but he wants small pancakes today, not big ones, so I don’t have to clean half-cooked pancakes off the stove. The piece of bacon he steals is from the first batch to come out of the pan, not the most recent, so he doesn’t burn himself. He goes to get plates and doesn’t argue when I tell him to put away the ones he got for this brothers; they’re at school.
All in all, a good start to the day.
Then, it’s time to eat. And that’s when the battle begins.
“Matt, let’s pray.”
“I already did.”
“No, you didn’t. Sit down with me.”
“No, Ma, I did! Papa say I already did!”
Religion is not a fight I’m ready to have with my kid, so I usually let this one go. He can pray with me if he wants to, and I will continue to lead by example, praying before every meal.
“Okay. I’m going to say a prayer, then.”
I pray while he eats the butter off his pancakes.
“Ma, I need more butter.”
“You just ate it all off your pancakes. What’d you do that for?”
He shrugs. “For fun. More, please!”
Nice use of the magic word. I go to get him more butter. When I’ve come back, he’s fed half his bacon to the puppy.
“He likes it, Ma!” He yikes it.
“Eat your food, babe. The puppy’s got food in his room.”
He pushes the food around on his plate for a couple of seconds, then gets up.
“Where are you going?”
“To get the puppy.”
“Leave the puppy alone. Come eat your food, please.”
Matt drags the puppy out from where he was sleeping behind the couch, belly full of bacon.
“Put the puppy back down.”
He puts the puppy on the couch.
“Matt! Not on the couch!”
“Sorry, Ma.” He pushes the puppy off the couch.
It’s barely eight. I don’t feel like fighting this early. I let this slide.
“Matt, come eat.”
Matt sits back down with me and picks up his fork. He throws half a pancake on the floor.
“Why did you do that?”
“Because I want to.”
“Matt, you’re making Mama upset. You need to eat your breakfast so we can go outside and check the animals.”
“I full.”
“You haven’t eaten anything yet.”
He pushes his plate away. “I don’t wanna eat this food. It yucky. I don’t like it.”
“It’s pancakes. You like pancakes.”
“No I don’t.”
By now, I have finished my food. I take my plate to the sink.
“Where you going, Ma?”
“I’m done eating. See. I ate all my food.” I show him my empty plate. “It’s gone gone. I’m going to wash my plate.”
“I done eating, too.”
“No, you’re not. You didn’t eat anything yet.”
“I eat butter, Ma.”
I shake my head. I try really hard not to laugh when he says things like this. I really do. Because laughter encourages him, so then he wants to say more things like this.
“Butter doesn’t count, babe. Eat your eggs.”
“No.”
He’s pushing. He always does with me. I haven’t figured out why yet, but he gets some kind of pleasure out of fighting with me.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you need to eat your food to get big and tough.”
“No, Ma. I be a weenie today.”
“Matt. Look at me.” He has a problem with eye contact. I’m not sure if it’s a toddler thing or not, since I haven’t hung out with too many toddlers. He looks at me, then looks away again. At the table. At his food. At the floor. Anywhere but me.
“Look at me.”
He does.
“Eat your food.”
“I don’t want to.”
“I don’t care. Eat your food.”
“Why?”
“Because I said so.”
“But I don’t want to, Ma.” He’s starting to whine, drawing out my name into two syllables.
“Matt. Eat your food.”
He’s quiet for a few seconds while he stares at his food. I go sit on the couch. I pull my laptop out to check my Facebook.
“Ma?”
“Yes, babe?”
“I tired.”
“Okay. Go to bed.”
He’s quiet again while he considers.
“No, I want lay down with you.”
I shrug. “I’m not tired.”
“I don’t wanna go to my bed.”
“You can go to bed or you can eat your food.”
“No!” He stands up on his chair and yells at me.
“You don’t talk to me like that!”
“But, Ma! I not hungry!” He’s still yelling.
I’ve had enough. I pull out my big guns. “You know Daddy’s gonna be mad at you when he gets home.”
“Nuh-uh.” He’s not so loud. His dad had gone to take his brothers to the bus for school. He’s not usually gone too long in the morning. Should be home any minute.
“Yep.” I cock my head to one side, listening. Sure enough, I hear a car door close. “Do you hear that?”
“Hear what, Mama?” He starts to sit back down.
I listen some more. “That! That’s Daddy. He’s coming up the stairs.”
Matt pulls his plate back towards himself and picks his fork back up.
“I eating, Ma. I hungry.”
He’s shoveling food into his mouth when his dad walks in the front door.
“Hi, hito! You’re eating so good. Getting so big and tough.”
“Yeah! I tough, Papa!” he says, showing his muscles.
Part of me always hates myself a little that I can’t get my son to do the simplest things, but he has no problem doing them when his dad’s around. Part of me wishes I were a tougher parent. One of those parents that says, “If you don’t eat your breakfast, I’m going to send you to your room.” and actually sends their kid to their room after that first warning. I’m more of a third or fourth warning kind of mom.
Another part of me, though, a bigger part, is glad for my softness. Glad that in a world that is going to be so hard all of the time, I, at least, he can count on to be a little easier. Because his dad is hard enough on him. His brothers are hard enough on him.
The world is going to be hard on him.
I am the shoulder he cries on and the comfort he seeks. So I’m grateful he’s got my softness.
I’m glad I’ve got Dad, though, for mornings like those.
Sincerely,
A Soft Mom
I had one of those mornings again.
“Matt, what do you want for breakfast?” People keep telling me not to let him decide. Just cook and he’ll eat it. And sometime I do. Sometimes, I just want oatmeal or I’m really craving an omelet, so that’s what we eat. Most mornings, I don’t care. And I know he’s going to say pancakes. I’m not sure if he really likes pancakes or just likes to make pancakes. Breakfast, lunch, or dinner, though, if I ask, he’ll tell me pancakes.
“Pancakes!”
I check the fridge. Milk - check. Butter - check. Syrup - check. Eggs, of course. My chickens are just now slowing down (I’m getting four or five eggs a day instead of twenty four or twenty five), but I’ve got a pretty decent stock pile. Bacon - check.
“Okay. What else?”
“Bacon! And yolky eggs!”
“How many eggs?”
“Too much.”
“One or two?”
“Both of them.”
I decide on two. If he doesn’t eat them, I can feed them to the cats.
The cooking of the breakfast goes much more smoothly than normal. While he insists on mixing the pancake batter, he doesn’t want to crack eggs today, so I don’t have to dig shells out of the batter. He also wants to flip his own pancakes, but he wants small pancakes today, not big ones, so I don’t have to clean half-cooked pancakes off the stove. The piece of bacon he steals is from the first batch to come out of the pan, not the most recent, so he doesn’t burn himself. He goes to get plates and doesn’t argue when I tell him to put away the ones he got for this brothers; they’re at school.
All in all, a good start to the day.
Then, it’s time to eat. And that’s when the battle begins.
“Matt, let’s pray.”
“I already did.”
“No, you didn’t. Sit down with me.”
“No, Ma, I did! Papa say I already did!”
Religion is not a fight I’m ready to have with my kid, so I usually let this one go. He can pray with me if he wants to, and I will continue to lead by example, praying before every meal.
“Okay. I’m going to say a prayer, then.”
I pray while he eats the butter off his pancakes.
“Ma, I need more butter.”
“You just ate it all off your pancakes. What’d you do that for?”
He shrugs. “For fun. More, please!”
Nice use of the magic word. I go to get him more butter. When I’ve come back, he’s fed half his bacon to the puppy.
“He likes it, Ma!” He yikes it.
“Eat your food, babe. The puppy’s got food in his room.”
He pushes the food around on his plate for a couple of seconds, then gets up.
“Where are you going?”
“To get the puppy.”
“Leave the puppy alone. Come eat your food, please.”
Matt drags the puppy out from where he was sleeping behind the couch, belly full of bacon.
“Put the puppy back down.”
He puts the puppy on the couch.
“Matt! Not on the couch!”
“Sorry, Ma.” He pushes the puppy off the couch.
It’s barely eight. I don’t feel like fighting this early. I let this slide.
“Matt, come eat.”
Matt sits back down with me and picks up his fork. He throws half a pancake on the floor.
“Why did you do that?”
“Because I want to.”
“Matt, you’re making Mama upset. You need to eat your breakfast so we can go outside and check the animals.”
“I full.”
“You haven’t eaten anything yet.”
He pushes his plate away. “I don’t wanna eat this food. It yucky. I don’t like it.”
“It’s pancakes. You like pancakes.”
“No I don’t.”
By now, I have finished my food. I take my plate to the sink.
“Where you going, Ma?”
“I’m done eating. See. I ate all my food.” I show him my empty plate. “It’s gone gone. I’m going to wash my plate.”
“I done eating, too.”
“No, you’re not. You didn’t eat anything yet.”
“I eat butter, Ma.”
I shake my head. I try really hard not to laugh when he says things like this. I really do. Because laughter encourages him, so then he wants to say more things like this.
“Butter doesn’t count, babe. Eat your eggs.”
“No.”
He’s pushing. He always does with me. I haven’t figured out why yet, but he gets some kind of pleasure out of fighting with me.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you need to eat your food to get big and tough.”
“No, Ma. I be a weenie today.”
“Matt. Look at me.” He has a problem with eye contact. I’m not sure if it’s a toddler thing or not, since I haven’t hung out with too many toddlers. He looks at me, then looks away again. At the table. At his food. At the floor. Anywhere but me.
“Look at me.”
He does.
“Eat your food.”
“I don’t want to.”
“I don’t care. Eat your food.”
“Why?”
“Because I said so.”
“But I don’t want to, Ma.” He’s starting to whine, drawing out my name into two syllables.
“Matt. Eat your food.”
He’s quiet for a few seconds while he stares at his food. I go sit on the couch. I pull my laptop out to check my Facebook.
“Ma?”
“Yes, babe?”
“I tired.”
“Okay. Go to bed.”
He’s quiet again while he considers.
“No, I want lay down with you.”
I shrug. “I’m not tired.”
“I don’t wanna go to my bed.”
“You can go to bed or you can eat your food.”
“No!” He stands up on his chair and yells at me.
“You don’t talk to me like that!”
“But, Ma! I not hungry!” He’s still yelling.
I’ve had enough. I pull out my big guns. “You know Daddy’s gonna be mad at you when he gets home.”
“Nuh-uh.” He’s not so loud. His dad had gone to take his brothers to the bus for school. He’s not usually gone too long in the morning. Should be home any minute.
“Yep.” I cock my head to one side, listening. Sure enough, I hear a car door close. “Do you hear that?”
“Hear what, Mama?” He starts to sit back down.
I listen some more. “That! That’s Daddy. He’s coming up the stairs.”
Matt pulls his plate back towards himself and picks his fork back up.
“I eating, Ma. I hungry.”
He’s shoveling food into his mouth when his dad walks in the front door.
“Hi, hito! You’re eating so good. Getting so big and tough.”
“Yeah! I tough, Papa!” he says, showing his muscles.
Part of me always hates myself a little that I can’t get my son to do the simplest things, but he has no problem doing them when his dad’s around. Part of me wishes I were a tougher parent. One of those parents that says, “If you don’t eat your breakfast, I’m going to send you to your room.” and actually sends their kid to their room after that first warning. I’m more of a third or fourth warning kind of mom.
Another part of me, though, a bigger part, is glad for my softness. Glad that in a world that is going to be so hard all of the time, I, at least, he can count on to be a little easier. Because his dad is hard enough on him. His brothers are hard enough on him.
The world is going to be hard on him.
I am the shoulder he cries on and the comfort he seeks. So I’m grateful he’s got my softness.
I’m glad I’ve got Dad, though, for mornings like those.
Sincerely,
A Soft Mom