Not talking about curse words. This is more like a phrase. Here’s how it began…
My youngest son hung out at a buddy’s house last night.
When they dropped him off, I peppered him with enough questions that would have qualified as a courtroom interrogation. Did he have fun? Does he still have homework? Did he eat dinner?
Yes to all.
His ocean-blue eyes grew very wide with excitement at the mention of dinner, and he waved his hands to emphasize that his friend’s mom served ‘this really good chicken.‘ Yes, he ate it all. Followed by 5 words that I could have gone my entire existence without hearing:
‘I liked her chicken better.’
On the outside, I forced a smile. On the inside, I was thinking this is a bunch of crap. I lost the battle of chicken dinners? How is hers better? So I did want any other mom would do.
I asked what was so great about winner winner chicken dinner.
‘She had this really good green stuff on it.’
Really? All this fuss over some green stuff that he would NEVERRRRRR eat in my home. If I so much as pepper the darn bird, he’s asking what’s on it, can I wipe it off, and how about a bowl of Cap’n Crunch instead?
Was it dill? Chives? Some sort of weird seasoning? I investigated my spice cabinet for anything remotely the shade of green.
Then I laughed.
Why is it we moms get sideways about moments like these? They mostly make me giggle, though there is a mystery in there somewhere. We want our kids to like our efforts better. Silly, but true. We’re family, so shouldn’t we get first rights? We order pizza like any other family, yet he says another buddy’s mom, whom I love, has the BEST breadsticks. For crying out loud, are they HAND-MADE? (Don’t think I didn’t ask her where she ordered from.) I make a hell of a carrot cake, but my oldest son says our neighbor’s cake is award-winning and I ‘should try it.’
Oh, yes. Would LOVE to.
Even better, the TEENAGED sister made it. You know, just threw this blue-ribbon cake together between text messages and episodes of the Bachelor. I make cupcakes from scratch with homemade buttercream, and he tells me: ‘What’s up with the frosting? Can’t you just use the stuff in the can?’
*shutting my head in the pantry door repeatedly*
I’m okay with the boys having other favorites. But my pride has a limit. So when I tucked my youngest in bed and asked him to hand over his ipod for the night, he told me to glance at his new screensaver.
It was a photo of a dog. Not our dog. His friend’s dog. The friend with the really good chicken.
We have to laugh about it, and then wonder why it gets to us. Does this happen to you? Share your story!