My parents are a riot sometimes. Really they are.
Last night, my daughter was still feeling ill, so I prepared chicken with rice soup for her dinner. (I ate a sandwich on a hoagie roll and a few chips.) Smelling the soup, my dad came into the living room. "What's for dinner?" he asked my mom.
Nose buried in something on her lap, she issued her standard response without even looking up, "What do you want?"
Following the pattern, my dad said, "How about spaghetti?" This whole scene is repeated almost word for word every time my dad asks what is for dinner. It is almost as if my parents had worked out a script, years ago, and never bothered to change it.
Continuing with her lines in the script, my mom offered, "How about chicken?"
Enter the variable, me. (After all, I was sitting right there.)
"Why don't you have spaghetti with chicken in the sauce?"
No response from either parent. Glancing at my mom, she looked like she was entertaining the idea in her thoughts. Turning my gaze to my dad, though, I saw his eyebrows raised and him looking straight ahead. He looked as if he definitely did NOT like my suggestion. (We all knew he wanted plain old spaghetti.) But he seemed to be having a little difficulty deciding upon the best response to my suggested compromise.
"Dad probably hates me right now," I smiled.
A laugh exploded from my dad's gut before he could stifle it. He stood up. Walking out of the room, towards his computer, he called back, "As long as it has Red sauce."
Twenty minutes later, my dad contentedly munched on his dinner in front of the television: Egg noodles (note, not spaghetti) with pork (not chicken) in a cream sauce.
Last night, my daughter was still feeling ill, so I prepared chicken with rice soup for her dinner. (I ate a sandwich on a hoagie roll and a few chips.) Smelling the soup, my dad came into the living room. "What's for dinner?" he asked my mom.
Nose buried in something on her lap, she issued her standard response without even looking up, "What do you want?"
Following the pattern, my dad said, "How about spaghetti?" This whole scene is repeated almost word for word every time my dad asks what is for dinner. It is almost as if my parents had worked out a script, years ago, and never bothered to change it.
Continuing with her lines in the script, my mom offered, "How about chicken?"
Enter the variable, me. (After all, I was sitting right there.)
"Why don't you have spaghetti with chicken in the sauce?"
No response from either parent. Glancing at my mom, she looked like she was entertaining the idea in her thoughts. Turning my gaze to my dad, though, I saw his eyebrows raised and him looking straight ahead. He looked as if he definitely did NOT like my suggestion. (We all knew he wanted plain old spaghetti.) But he seemed to be having a little difficulty deciding upon the best response to my suggested compromise.
"Dad probably hates me right now," I smiled.
A laugh exploded from my dad's gut before he could stifle it. He stood up. Walking out of the room, towards his computer, he called back, "As long as it has Red sauce."
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