This is a true story, every word of it, and although it's way too long, I need to record it for pos-tear-it-tee's sake, because it does fortell the future.
Tuesday night, I arrived home after a long day or work and meetings to get my usual greeting: "We're hoooooooonnnnngry! What's for dinner?" To which I responded, "Shut up and get me a pint of wine from the box." Well, not really, but that's what I was thinking anyway. I did my deep breathing exercises, recently recommended by my anger management coach, and "assumed the position" (behind the counter with some things that I can throw at people, like wooden spoons, and some things I shouldn't throw at people, like knives and plates).
By some wonderful miracle, the kitchen was actually clean. I put some pre-breaded, frozen chicken strips in the oven (because I'm a loving, health-conscious Mother who only buys organic) and tinkered around waiting for them to be ready. In the midst of my tinkering, I noticed that the compost bucket needed to be emptied. What a perfect job for a short person who can't legally drink.
Fatty to the boys, who are in repose upon the sofas, gazing upon scholarly tomes with lots of pictures all the whilst picking their snooters: "I need someone to please take the compost out."
This chore involves opening a door and walking about 50 feet, dumping a bucket on a small pile, turning around, walking 50 feet back inside, closing the door, and putting the bucket on the counter. Big whoop.
Rufus, who is quick on the draw: "I did it last time! He has to do it!"
At this point, Boudreaux emits a loud nasal sound that is somewhat akin to the siren on an East Texus ambulance: "AWWWWWWWWWWWW, DO I HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAVE TO?"
Now, I don't know what planet's moon was in what orbit, but my fuse wasn't short enough to get even get lit...I just went from zero to absolutely pissed off in about 2.3 nanoseconds:
"Fine," I said, "I'll take it out and you people can make your own dinner. If you can't do anything helpful for me, then I won't be helpful for you."
At this point, I expected much apologies and butt kissing and someone else to take the damn compost out, but in the two second pause that I allowed, none of this happened, so I stomped out to the damn heap and dumped the damned stuff myself. Upon returning inside, the timer went off for the chicken strips, so I put the hot pan on the stove top, put a fork next to them, got down two plates from the tall cabinet, and said, "Okay, that's all I'm contributing. The pan is hot, so don't burn yourself because you get no sympathy from me. Come in here and make your dinner."
At this point, I expected more whining and pleading, but no, I left the kitchen, and both boys got up to fix their dinners (aka, put a chicken strip on a plate). My next expectation was that each would eat just a chicken strip for dinner, because after all, that was cooked and waiting. But again, I was wrong. The scene that unfolded was an amazing illustration of birth order, genetics, and other stuff that I don't have the brain cells to list here.
Rufus got a plate, put a chicken strip on it, and walked to the table, not saying a word (MIRACLE!). His vibe was "I don't give a damn what sort of fit you throw. I'll eat my chicken and show you I don't care." He was a miniature version of Bumpus. Exactly.
But Boudreaux marched into the kitchen with a screaming air of "Alright then, I'll show you, dammit!" Yes, he is his mother's child and acts just like her. He then dug an orange out of the fridge, got a cutting board and a knife (not exceptionally sharp, so I just watched in interest from the other room), and proceeded to peel and section the orange. Rufus sat eating in silence. Boudreaux (just like his Mama would) marched over to the table and put half the orange segments on Rufus's plate: "Eat this," he commanded. Rufus (just like his Daddy) sat in silence, chewing.
Boudreaux picked up an apple, sliced it, cored it (well, sort of), and again, marched half of it over to Rufus's plate: "Eat this too," little bossy-like-me commanded. Stoic-"I'm not gonna let you get to me"-like-his-Daddy-Rufus sat in silence, chewing.
Boudreaux went to the icebox and dug out the green beans, put the container in the microwave for 60 seconds, marched back to Rufus and put about 10 green beans on his plate. Rufus, who will refuse all cooperation, spoke: "I don't want green beans. In fact I haven't asked for any of this." Boudreaux de la Mama: "You need to eat a vegetable. Hush up and eat them." Rufus goes back to silent chewing.
Boudreax returned to the kitchen, opened the bread and put a piece on his plate (with the chicken, apple, orange, and green beans). At this point, Rufus silently got up from the table, took his plate into the kitchen, and put it on the counter...the chicken, apple, and orange eatten, and the green beans untouched. Boudreaux looks at the green beans, bursts into screaming tears and runs out of the room, throwing himself face down on the bed and wailing loudly.
Rufus, unfazed, walks into the living room and sits down with a book.
The wailing continues, Rufus looking unaffected.
"Would you like some advice?" I finally ask.
R: "About what?"
F: "About your brother, who is throwing a screaming hissy fit this very moment."
R, after a long pause: "I guess."
F: "I suggest you go in there and (1) thank him for making your dinner and (2) tell him you will wash the dishes in return."
Rufus thought for a minute and then got up and went into the room where Boudreaux sounded like he might be in the later stages of labor. Almost immediately Rufus comes back out, picks up his book, and sits back down.
F: "Did you tell him?"
R: "No."
F: "Why not?"
R: "Because he is screaming so loud that he can't hear me."
F: "I suggest tapping him on the shoulder to get his attention."
He does and makes his peace and goes back to his book. Boudreaux eventually pulls himself together and returns to the kitchen, where he goes back to his slice of bread, gets out a slice of cheese, and makes himself 1/2 of a cheese sandwich to go with his dinner. He has a balanced meal: chicken, apple, orange, green beans, cheese, and bread, with a large glass of milk (poured himself). I am impressed by trying hard to look uninvolved.
Rufus to Boudreaux: "When you're done, I'll clean up. Thank you again for my dinner."
Boudreaux: "If you had been a little more grateful, you could have had a balanced meal like me."
Rufus did the dishes.
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