Platitudes and Oysters
I have always tried to be a good example to my kids. Really! Honest! I have! But it seems like the most “teachable” moments for them came when I was at my worst. Does my son remember how I slaved for weeks, sewing my fingers to the bone (okay, not literally—that would have been extremely painful, though definitely appropriate for Halloween) making him that Green Ranger costume? Nah. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t. But does he remember the time I swallowed a bug when we were walking down to the fireworks on the river one July 4th? Oh, yeah. I still get renditions of “The Old Woman Who Swallowed a Fly.” Ah, memories.
Then there are the incidents where my feet of clay took on epic proportions. Like the time I had been up for 48 hours with a sick baby, and had just gotten her to fall asleep, and had just crawled into bed myself, when I heard my son calling for me. I stomped into his room and snarled, “What???!!!” And, he said, in a trembly little voice, “I dreamed a T Rex was chasing me—and it ate me.” Winning me the Lousy Mother of the Year award by a landslide. Of course, I said I was sorry, and I hugged him, and comforted him…but I felt like something you scrape off your shoe before coming inside.
It’s these moments of, shall we say, “less-than-perfection” that seem to stick in my children’s minds forever. In fact, they regularly ask to be told the stories again. “Hey Mom! Tell us about the time…”
I think one of the best of my worsts was the time I had run out of money (I know that never happens to YOU, but it does to me), and I was worried sick about how I was going to feed everybody for the next week and a half, when the next paycheck was due. My daughter, Kathleen, who was eight or so, said, “Don’t worry, Mommy. God will take care of us.”
I muttered something about the Lord not doing a very good job of it, while counting out my $2.46 in change and trying to figure out what to do. I’m pretty sure I was stomping through that store, holding Kathleen’s hand a little too tightly, nursing my worry and feeling pretty ticked off at the Creator at that moment----
Until I reached the bread display. Over it was a huge, hand lettered sign, which read: “BUY ONE. GET FOUR FREE.”
I just started laughing. What else could I do? “Okay, God, I get it,” I said, still chuckling. “Geez, you didn’t have to shout.”
And then, there was the “oysters and platitudes” incident. Definitely a favorite with my kids. It was the day before Thanksgiving, and I always make oyster dressing. I am inordinately proud of my oyster dressing. If my oyster dressing could sing, it would sing opera. If it could paint, it would paint the Sistine Chapel. My oyster dressing is a transcendental experience.
Except that there were no oysters to be found. Anywhere. Trust me, I looked. I drove all over St. Louis and St. Charles. There was some sort of shortage; the suppliers hadn’t come through. Everybody had an excuse. But I was very, very frustrated.
My kids tried to make me feel better. “It’s okay, Mom,” they said. “We don’t need oysters to have a good Thanksgiving. Thanksgiving isn’t about oysters. It’s about family, and being thankful for what we have!”
“Don’t give me platitudes!” I snapped. “I want OYSTERS!”
Yep. Mother Theresa’s got nothing on me. I have my priorities straight.
Oddly enough, though, my children seem not only to have survived my lapses in judgment, somehow they have actually absorbed the lessons I taught by being a horrible example.
They have it right—Thanksgiving IS about family, NOT oysters. God DOES take care of us, and has proven it amply, time and again. My children have grown up, and have grown in their faith. They’ve taught me better than I’ve taught them.
But I still cringe when one of them gets that gleam in his eye and says, “Hey, Mom! Remember the oysters and the platitudes?