A few nights ago, I went into the kitchen to wash out my water glass before heading up to bed. I came into the kitchen to find a mostly empty ice cream container, sitting in a puddle of melted ice cream. A pop-tart wrapper (from a pop-tart enhanced with extra protein, mind you!) with the corner ripped off lying on the floor. A wrapper from packaged peanut butter crackers was not far off. A bowl with a film of milk and a few random soggy cheerios sat close to the ice cream container. And several glasses. And spoons. Always the random stray spoon. I sighed, frustrated with the most likely culprit: The young man who is extremely particular about the food he eats before 9 or 10 p.m. (mostly protein, very light on carbs) and then turns into the stereotypical, insatiable, teenage boy who can’t seem to eat enough. As I muttered a few things to myself about always cleaning up, who should walk in but said 16-year-old boy? A predictable exchange took place: me asking a little more sharply than usual for him to do simple things like use the trash can instead of the floor or counter, put the dishes in the dishwasher or at least, the sink. Him responding with a mix of placating and condescension, which only sharpened the barbs in my responses. He is skilled at this ability to get right under my skin while he remains calm and affable. I can see what is happening, and often, I don’t take the rope. But on this particular night, I was tired and what should’ve been no more than a few minutes of cleaning had been significantly extended.
Melting ice cream and sunbursts and growing up
Melting ice cream and sunbursts and growing…
Melting ice cream and sunbursts and growing up
A few nights ago, I went into the kitchen to wash out my water glass before heading up to bed. I came into the kitchen to find a mostly empty ice cream container, sitting in a puddle of melted ice cream. A pop-tart wrapper (from a pop-tart enhanced with extra protein, mind you!) with the corner ripped off lying on the floor. A wrapper from packaged peanut butter crackers was not far off. A bowl with a film of milk and a few random soggy cheerios sat close to the ice cream container. And several glasses. And spoons. Always the random stray spoon. I sighed, frustrated with the most likely culprit: The young man who is extremely particular about the food he eats before 9 or 10 p.m. (mostly protein, very light on carbs) and then turns into the stereotypical, insatiable, teenage boy who can’t seem to eat enough. As I muttered a few things to myself about always cleaning up, who should walk in but said 16-year-old boy? A predictable exchange took place: me asking a little more sharply than usual for him to do simple things like use the trash can instead of the floor or counter, put the dishes in the dishwasher or at least, the sink. Him responding with a mix of placating and condescension, which only sharpened the barbs in my responses. He is skilled at this ability to get right under my skin while he remains calm and affable. I can see what is happening, and often, I don’t take the rope. But on this particular night, I was tired and what should’ve been no more than a few minutes of cleaning had been significantly extended.