The Lover of Peas
Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.
Robert Frost
Regardless about which side of the nature vs. nurture argument you fall on, children prove that nature wins. Some come with such strong personalities that even in the womb there are disturbing signs of future temperaments. One of my babies so was active, he got a little foot stuck between two of my ribs. My husband came to the rescue and gently pushed back the little mound to where it belonged, but the baby didn’t like one bit. He still doesn’t take kindly to being told no. Another son was born with his eyes wide open and absolutely no crying. He lifted up his head, looked around the room, and peed in the doctor’s face—a comment on the Doc’s delivery skills, I believe. (That son has matured considerably, however. Now he just uses his third finger to express his displeasure).
We were so proud of Son #3 when he came along. The other kids called him the “General Authority” because he always did what he was supposed to. And he did it better than anyone else. (Still does, now that I think about it.) He made his first pun at three years old. When he came in with a towel tied around his throat, the other end dragging the ground behind him, I asked him if he was Superman. He looked at me with disdain and yelled, “No! I’m Ben-ja-man!”
And the zingers didn’t stop there. Take the peas, for example. All his older siblings hated peas–a circumstance which was confusing to my husband and I as we loved peas, so we had them for dinner quite often. The older kids wouldn’t touch them. Every single one of them shoved the peas off the highchair tray and onto the floor. But not Son #3. I’d spread some warm, buttery peas out on Son #3’s tray, and they would disappear. He was such a good boy, I thought affectionately. Till several months later when I dusted all the books on the bookcase next to the highchair. I pulled out the three-ringed Better Homes and Garden book to wipe off the cover, and hundreds of dried-up, desiccated peas rolled onto the floor. Son #3’s tiny fingers must had delicately dropped each and every one of the peas I’d ever served him into the channel made by the rings—no doubt, careful to do so when my back was turned.
When he was about five, I told him he had to finish all his dinner or he couldn’t go out to play—a long-standing family rule. He sulked; he toyed with his food; he whined; and at length, he exploded!
“You are the Second Meanest Mom in the Whole World,” he screamed at me.
It wasn’t my first rodeo with this mother thing. I replied calmly, “What’s this ‘second meanest’ business?”
He shoved his chair away from the table, stood up, and slammed his fork so hard against the plate that it bounced onto the floor. Rising to his full height of all 48 inches, he looked me straight in the eye, took a deep breath, and said, “You’re not first in anything!”
So there.