Working while playing, playing while working
The weekend had arrived early. By Thursday our bags were packed and loaded into the car. The GPS clocked our arrival for sometime around midnight, but we’d pull into the deep woods of grandmother’s house in the neighborhood of one in the morning. Too late for anything more than to accordion ourselves out of the car and into the beds that awaited us, already made up and waiting.
Perhaps we’ll unpack the car in the morning. The ultimate in early starts.
The children weren’t happy.
Of course, they love their grandmother. And Maine. And all the things that are familiar in their lazy-summer experience of our northernmost state, excluding the five hours of motion sickness they have to endure to get there.
For this reason, (and my general ineptitude) dinner wasn’t even a thought, let alone an afterthought.
It didn’t help that they were hungry as their stomachs started to settle and I hadn’t thought to bring snacks. I knew all the cupboards would be bare.
“You really are the worst mother ever,” my daughter says with glee. “Real mothers have all kinds of things in their bags in case of emergencies. Like lifesavers and packets of crackers and wallets.”
Darned kids. Forget your wallet one time, and you’ll never hear the end of it.
Honestly, they have no idea how lucky they are to have a mother who is ill-prepared.
They have had to be resourceful. My children have had to problem solve. They’ve had to plan ahead and around me.
They don’t see it quite that way.
They’ve never been expected to do much of anything other than run, swim and play, and, on occasion, take their dirty dishes and put them near the sink. Asking them to load a dishwasher will provoke a panicked stare.
From their perspective, responsibilities come later: once they are out of college and on their own. Right now they have an idyllic childhood to muster out of sea air and mosquito bites.
Now is the time for adults to take care of them; to make sure they get enough to eat and that they’re not playing with fire.
Except for this trip -- one that commemorates 75 years of their grandmother’s life with the unveiling of her longawaited three-seasons room in her beloved year-round home — will require them to wear aprons and wait on tables.
Take orders and deliver meals to the big table. They will have to check in with guests to see if they should replenish their drinks or if they’ve had enough of the sesame noodle salad. They will eat separately and in the ceiling-fanned comfort of the new room.
Maybe it’s to our credit that our children seem to be naturals at service. They’ve made place cards with menus inside they will mark with selections. They even seem to be having fun, as they deliver the meals with a smile.
Guests marvel at the kids’ efficiency and grace. Probably thankful their potatoes didn’t arrive with thumbprints. But they were marvels. They had circulated appetizers and taken beverage orders as if they were being paid in currency rather than goodwill.
My son had even affected the appearance of a snooty wine sommelier, who would judge you harshly for pairing salmon with merlot.
Even as they are sent out to the porch with their dinners, they return at the sound of a bell, ready to be of service, to which we feel a little red-faced. We had only meant to silence the table for an announcement, not summon the waitstaff.
Of course tomorrow they would be red-faced too, as we had plans to play with fire.
Literally: Their job will be dragging brush from the woods and tossing it onto the bonfire in the yard.
I hope they don’t expect me to remember the snacks.