Our mother ended her conversation mid-sentence and quickly moved into the kitchen to deal with our sister and her butter-slathered fingers. I can’t remember if she lost her butter privileges or not. What I do remember is our mother’s immediate shift from being inconvenienced by our interruption to urgently dealing with the incident at hand. We’d proven our cause to be worthy of interrupting.
I had a parenting butter incident of my very own a few days ago. I had been trying to prepare dinner and the boys were in rare form; wildly running around the kitchen, stealing components of their dinner from their plates before I’d finished, and engaging in all manners of daredevil mischief which further diminished the odds that I’d ever complete dinner. I shooed them all into the living room, “Go watch TV. Leave me alone for a minute so I can get dinner on the table.”
Liam and Lucas reluctantly complied. James stuck around in the kitchen going about his normal business of pushing chairs around to access countertop supplies and opening the fridge in search of his beloved apple slices. I could see him out of the corner of my eye, standing in the light of the open fridge doors, chanting “Apple, apple, apple, apple…” I went about the dinner preparations, with my back turned to him. He became quiet and I’d assumed he’d temporarily given up his quest for precious apples.
