I gave birth to two children. I had a hand or two in raising a couple of others. I knew when I cooked a meal what the kids would eat and would not eat. I growled a growl or two when one persnickity child or another wouldn’t eat green beans/or anything grown naturally and good for you (you know who you are), or beans/corn/seasonings you actually picked out of your food (two of you know who you are) and then there was always one who would pretty much try anything so I didn’t get too upset when there was something this child didn’t like (thank you for making meals less stressful). As a side note, two of these children will not recognize themselves.
Grant it, having eight (8) children it may make it a little more difficult to remember likes and dislikes.
There are some things that some kids will never do.
We didn’t go out to eat as a rule when I was growing up. First, it just wasn’t as much a part of every day life as it seems to be nowadays. And, having eight kids, who has the money to go out? Or the time? I would think it would be easier to cook up dinner, serve it, have a kid do the dishes (your welcome those of you who never ever did dishes) and you’re done. Going out to eat would entail cleaning up eight kids, figuring out how to haul eight kids, finding a place that would accommodate eight kids, and feed eight kids without breaking the budget. Then, after the stress of maintaining eight kids tempers and manners, the exhaustion wouldn’t be worth it. Not to mention you then have to go home and calm everyone down. I’m just assuming some of these problems.
But there was an occasion or two when we went out to eat on a single basis with our parents. Usually your birthday could warrant this treat. And there was one time I remember because it was a breakfast meal I went to, with mom and dad. I don’t know why. It had to be a weekend and it had to be after church.
I remember being nervous about ordering. That is a lot of pressure. I should have known it was not going to go well when I tried to order eggs. I asked for “fried eggs” and the waitress asked me how I wanted them fried. What? There’s different ways to fry an egg? Mom told her over easy, or scrambled, I don’t know. It was overwhelming. Waitress leaves. Soon enough out comes the waitress with our drinks. She puts a glass of red stuff in front of me. Tomato juice? I told her I didn’t order that, I ordered orange juice.
She said no, I ordered tomato juice.
Then, it happened.
I looked to my mom and dad sitting across from me. They would save me. They would tell this woman I would not have ordered tomato juice, please bring her an orange juice. Because I was feeling a little panicked. There was no way I could drink tomato juice.
My mom and dad looked at me and said “no, you ordered tomato juice”. I had to stand up and try to look behind me, to find that knife sticking in my back.
Fine, I didn’t do that.
But I was shocked.
What? No, I wouldn’t do that! I don’t like it! I don’t like it!
You know what they said?
“We didn’t know why you ordered it.”
The juice remained on the table.
I thought I was going to cry. Maybe I did. Inside at least. I might have been stoic and held the tears in, but they were there.
Here’s the deal. Mom. Dad. If one of my kids ordered something they didn’t like. And I knew they didn’t like it. I would ask them. What? Why are you ordering that? You won’t eat it when I make it? At home you always say you hate it and you know you aren’t supposed to say hate. You know, one of those parenting comments that you inherit after giving birth.
They left me hanging. I never got orange juice. And I had to at least taste it but to be honest I can’t remember if they made me drink it all or not. Taste it I remember because I couldn’t understand why I had to taste something that I already knew I did not like to validate (I didn’t know that word back then) that I did not like it.
To this day I don’t trust my ordering ability. After I order, and even if wait person is taking someone else’s order at my table I will ask a question to clarify what I ordered.
I certainly can’t trust anyone at my table to know me well enough to protect me from myself and my inept abilities at ordering.
Apparently I’m still having issues with this.
I’ll get over it.