The Mealtime Maelstrom
Ever since I posted the little story about Lizzy’s etiquette advice, it seems that my eyes have been opened to our family’s DIRE NEED for mannerly mealtimes. One mere class- no matter how many courses of food were provided for “rehearsal”- wouldn’t cut it at our house anymore. We need to enroll in Miss Manners’ year-round school.
When I was just a mom of two small children, I worked my way through a popular parenting curriculum that raised many questions and offered conservative advice. While I recall very little of that eight -week study, I do remember discussing the following question-“What kind of environment do you want to establish during family mealtimes?”
The writer of the curriculum itself recommended a rigid and quiet setting. He suggested establishing rules such as “no singing at the table” and developing hand signals that children are required to use in order to ask permission to speak while eating. Though the advice has its merits, at the time, I remember balking at the idea of a rigid routine when the only noise our mealtimes involved were the sounds of toddler babble and baby coos. I wanted table time to be a warm, happy, noisy affair where everyone spontaneously shared the highs and lows of life and delighted in one another’s company. I imagined my happy family”breaking Mr. Expert’s rules” and bursting into spontaneous songs while we sipped our milk, much like the precious children on The Sound of Music.
Perhaps the problem with my mealtime fantasy is that I’m NOT Julia Andrews and my children don’t sing in seven-part harmony. Come to think of it, they don’t respond to a Captain’s whistle, either; although a whistle might come in handy during our mealtime madness. Perhaps it could take the place of those hand signals we’ve never quite mastered!
If you’d listen closely to the medley of noise rising from my kitchen table during a typical meal, you’d likely hear a pounding rhythm as my firstborn uses his silverware to bring to life the constant drumbeat in his head. If he is reminded that forks and spoons are for eating only, my music-man will trade cutlery for knuckles and begin a new percussion solo on the table’s edge. Add to drummer boy the cadence of shuffling chairs on a wood floor, the clanking of dishes, a smattering of routine arguments over who has to sit on the “squashed side” of the table and who gets the most elbow room, and the cries of an impatient toddler who is pounding on her high chair tray and wailing “PLEASE! PLEASE! PLEASE!” at the top of her lungs as she begs for the not-quite-ready-food, and you’ve got the start of a Bruxvoort mealtime composition.
Infuse that cacophony with a preschooler’s grumpy groans as our near-four-year-old rejects the very sight of any food that does not resemble soup or hot dogs: : “yuck…. uggghh.. icccckkkkk… (insert your own gagging and puking sound and you’ll get the idea here)” and then you’ll hear some of the dissonance developing as the final dish is delivered to the table. As the pre-prayer tune crescendos, we insert a few staccato parent phrases: “Hannah, you’ll need a milk pill for this meal,” and “Luke, PLEASE keep your chair on the floor,” and “Joshua, you’ll love this dish.. it’s kind of like soup without the liquid…. it’s like a hot dog without the skin….I KNOW, buddy, but you’ll need to take at least THREE BITES…” and “Yes, Maggie, your food is coming. Just a minute! It’s hot! Hot! Hot!”
Somewhere in the midst of this supper-song, Rob may pull a few pudgy fingers out of the food and remind the culprit that we need to wait to eat until we’ve prayed. Inevitably, the pre-prayer eater will moan and whine as if we’ve just instated a new kitchen code despite the fact that the wait-to-eat-until-you-pray rule has been law since before Jesus walked the earth. Finally, as I scurry to pull the last condiment out of the fridge, my seven-year-old will fold her hands in exasperation and begin to pray loudly over the ruckus because she’s trying to follow the rules and deep inside she believes if we just hurry up and pray we’ll all be able to eat in peace.
Though Hannah’s prayer is honest and sweet and genuine, her siblings will be instantly insulted by her premature praying and will begin to holler, “Not yet! Mom’s not sitting down. Wait! Wait! That doesn’t count. You’ll have to start over!” (As if one can’t talk to God while Mom is still pouring milk or God can’t hear a prayer uttered before the entire family closes their eyes). Now add to the dinner time tunes the sniffles of a crying first grader as the entire clan begins to pray together. If we merely try to talk to God rather than singing our praises, Joshua may jump in with his own monotone angel version of “Johnny Appleseed” which will lead to more noisy church camp songs until we’ve amply thanked the Lord for the food before us that has in the process grown cold.
And that’s just the symphony that fills our kitchen before we take the first bite of the meal prepared by my own hands in the midst of diaper changing, homework help and piano practice. Inevitably, as soon as the prayer is done, I’ll be called to the bathroom to wipe a poopy bottom or propelled from the table in search of paper towels to soak up the spill that happened when some one’s animated arm gestures grew too large. Interspersed between the chords of please pass the bread; what’s for dessert? and sit on your bottom, please; sit on your bottom, please; sit on your bottom please, we attempt to infuse a calm and conversational tune. We ask open-ended questions, read facial expressions and try to mold and shape hearts like our toddler is squishing and shaping her meatballs into new creations. But if we are too obvious in our attempts to direct the mealtime melody, the kids might catch on to our noble efforts and redirect the song. Before we know it a discussion on standing up for the weak and lonely may digress into an arm wrestling match or a rock-band-version of “Lean on Me.”
