Watermelon and PB&J’s
The Call from the Kitchen
“Watermelon and PB&J’s,” I yell, tilting my chin back over my left shoulder toward Twin B who is now suddenly standing right behind me.
“Oh, watermelon and PB&J’s,” I repeat, this time in a calm, conversational tone. As it should be.
Why do I even answer questions from the kitchen when the human asking is two rooms over, a flight of stairs up, and another two rooms away? I can hear them just fine, but my voice, according to them, never seems to make it back. So they say.
“They,” of course, being Big Sis (13), Twin A (11), Twin B (11), and Little One (8). All of whom were born with selective hearing, also known as: I hear you only when it benefits me.
Twin B: “We all do not like watermelon.”
Me: “Then why did I buy this ginormous watermelon?”
Twin B: “I don’t know. Also, I don’t want PB&J’s.”
The Truth About Titles and Temptation
“I have seen every single one of you eat a PB&J,” I reply. “I have literally made one for myself for dinner, only to ration it out so all five of us could have a bite because it looked good to you.”
Here’s what I’ve learned: the title of a dish doesn’t capture their attention. A well-plated, prepared meal for one, that’s the real MVP of dining.
Especially when the preparer (me) has already made four different meals for everyone else and is finally making her own plate while at an 8 out of 10 on the hunger scale. At that point, it could be hay topped with anchovies and a side of asparagus, and it would still become the most coveted plate in the house.
(And honestly, I wouldn’t even have to get that rogue with the vegetables. They already don’t appreciate green food. Someday they’ll learn it’s to be coveted, but for now, asparagus remains an acquired taste.)
The Stare
So there I am, finally on the couch with my plate, my single, beautiful plate they do not have, along with my tea, my napkin, and my smile.
And then I feel it. The stare.
Eight eyes. Or fourteen, if you count the dogs. They’ve spotted me: hungry, happy, ready to dig in.
I smile back. There’s no squint in my eyes or spark; the smile is forced.
Me: “You all enjoyed your dinners… yes?”
Low-key, as Twin A and Twin B would say, I feel like I want my body to drift back through the wall into my bed and close the door. Knowing that’s not going to happen, I sigh.
Me: “Did you want some?”
Four tall, gorgeous girls hop up with a sigh of relief.
Them: “Yes! I didn’t want to take it from you but yes. Thanks, Mom. I love you, Mom. Thanks, Mom.”
And just like that, dinner is gone. Girls gone. Dogs gone. I’m left holding a clean napkin and a fork.
Back to the drawing board. That was a play on words. Back to the kitchen. To make. Another. Meal. Or. Yogurt and berries. No, they love yogurt and berries.
Back to the Beginning
“Oh, yes, watermelon and PB&Js. That’s what I’m making for the beach.”
From behind me, Twin B chimes in again:
Twin B: “Mom, we all hate watermelon. And I only eat peanut butter on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Can you make something else?”