Let them eat Chicken

I think I have officially scarred my children for life. Or, at the very least, momentarily traumatized them.

Let me rewind my story to our trip to Target this evening, to pick up a few essentials for the house. I asked David and Elizabeth if they'd be up for some homemade chicken drumsticks for dinner.

"Drum sticks?" David asked. "They're too soft to play the drums with!"

"Oh, no sweetie. That's just an expression used when referring to the chicken legs."

"MMMM!! CHICKEN LEGS!!" he said breathlessly.

Elizabeth inserted protest #1: "NOOOOOO."

Once in the store, we walked toward the back in search of poultry and, well, laundry detergent (not, of course, intended to be used simultaneously).

David noticed the hybrid Superbowl/Valentine's decorations hanging from the store's ceiling.

"Why do they still have that?" he asked me.

"Have what?"

"The football stuff! The Superbowl's over!"

"Well, I think they're trying to advertise both football and Valentine's Day. But I'm not sure why."

"What does Valentine's Day mean?" he asked sweetly.

"Love! Hearts! Hugs!" I replied.

"What does football mean?" he continued.

"Well ... um ... sports," I stammered.

"And money!" he said wisely. (I just had to throw that gem into this story!).

We got home, and David proceeded to begin his evening reading, and Elizabeth, as usual, was pretty much his happy and captive audience. I prepped the chicken in my usual manner: I dredged it in flour, and browned it on the stove for about 5 minutes before cooking it through via basting in a warm bath of shallow water.

Mac and cheese and carrots soon went onto the stove, and in about 20 minutes, we had ourselves a meal. And, man! My chicken was yummy. Finger-licking good, I might add. As Dora the Explorer's Backpack would say, "Yum! Yum! Yum! Yum! Yum! İDelicioso!"

David licked his lips. Elizabeth inserted protest #2: "NOOO!"

"Elizabeth, you need to try just one small bite, and that's it."

"Mommy?" she asked, eyes wide. "May I have a cookie?"

"Yes you may. AFTER you try the chicken."

"NOOO!!"

The conversation went on and on like this for about five minutes until I decided to drop the subject and finish my own food. David, wary of eating the chicken straight from the bone, relented and let me cut the meat off. He dug right in.

"Oh! This chicken is soooo good! I want to marry this chicken!" he declared, channeling the character "Sam" from "iCarly."

"Thanks, sweetie!" I was delighted.

Elizabeth was adamant. She was not touching that stinking piece of chicken, no how, no way.

David, having polished off his food so well, asked for a popsicle for dessert. I agreed and proceeded to the freezer.

"WHAAA! I wanna popsicle like David!" Elizabeth protested.

"Well, you may have one, but you know what you need to do first."

I grabbed her plate and reluctantly went to the stove to get her a bit more mac and cheese. Hey, a girl's gotta eat, so it may as well be something that part of the main meal.

"I hate chicken!" she said. And then began rattling off a list of other things she hates, culminating, of course, in "I hate you!"

And there it was.

Now, I'm a bit amazed that I took that critique with as much calmness as I did. There is no way on earth that Elizabeth has a full grasp of the concept "hate." Yes, it appears to be her most popular word of choice lately, but that doesn't mean that she really understand its context. That said, I had just heard the words "I hate you" from the lips of one of my kids for the very first time. I stared at the pots and pans at the stove, and just stood there a minute, taking it all in.

David jumped right in. "I don't hate you, Mommy! I love you!"

"Oh, thanks, sweetie," I replied. "Elizabeth, I'm really sorry you hate me, sweetie. I don't hate you. I don't think you quite know what that means though," I said, trying to use my most tranquil voice.

"I wanna go home!" she proclaimed (yet another one of her favorite sayings when things are not going her way. I reminded her that we were already home. Then, I made the following offer:

"Would you guys like for me to get you a new mommy? It's not a problem. It will just take a minute."

And, with that, I started walking to the front door. At first, their protests were relatively mild. "Oh, no, Mommy. We don't want a new one. Mommy? We don't want a new mommy!" And finally, it all culminated in ear-piercing, heart wrenching screams the second I opened the front door (and stepped out for two seconds to grab a box that had been delivered).

"MOOOMMYYYY!!!!"

I turned around and saw the faces of two innocent, frantic and frightened children. David was crying. Elizabeth was crying. I felt like a heel.

I turned around and went back in to join them. David was sobbing his little heart out, his red, white, and blue popsicle melting slowly in his little hand. I wrapped my arms around him and said, "it's okay ... it's okay ... I'm not going anywhere."

"I was so ... so ... so scared!" he said, making me feel even more horrible than I already did.

Elizabeth piled on, but still protesting about two issues: my attempted exit and my unwillingness to procure a popsicle for her.

Everyone calmed down after a minute, and we finished the nightly routine with teeth brushing, baths, and jammies. Both little ones are now tucked safely in their beds. I snuggled for a few extra minutes with David to make sure he was okay, and to assure him that I was going to stick around for the long haul.

"I'm sorry I messed with you there, buddy," I said.

"That's okay," he sighed.

"I promise to always be here for you."

He brought his hand out from under his blanket and stuck out his pinkie. We engaged in a mutual pinkie swear.

Tomorrow is another day.