"How about, good morning mom? Hi mom? You must have slept so well, you look radiant?"
He rolls his ten year old eyes in unison with a 'whatever' sigh.
"And, I don't like that V8 juice, I'd rather have orange juice."
I let that one go, too, because he just looks so damn cute in his striped pajamas and bedhead.
"Will you please get the syrup out of the pantry?" The martyr side of me kicks instinctively into high gear, with hopes that he will be moved to help, simply because I am just shy of squeezing fresh orange juice for him. I hear him open the pantry with loud body language.
"Oh my gosh! You said you were going to buy the good syrup! Why did you buy the store kind, again!"
And that was it. The catapult that launched my son on an unforgettable guilt trip with yours truly. And I assure you, no one can lay a good guilt trip like Mom.
I didn't even try to stop myself from using the usual cliche's. I even harped on those poor children in China who never had-and probably never will- have syrup. Oh, you are so lucky, you don't even know how lucky you are. When I was your age..." I went on and on stopped before I got to my 'barefoot walks to school in the snow, uphill!' But I did not leave out the fact that I am not his servant.
I inserted a few, "I don't even know why I try", "I work so hard", and even the classic, "Everything I do is for you." And, all I ask in return is for you to dip your perfect pancakes in 1/4 cup of store brand, sugar free, dollar-ninety-nine syrup.
I'm such a bad mom, I don't know how you even find the will to wake up every day.
Oh, that was good. I think I really got through to him with that 'perfect pancake' bit.
I hovered over my son at the table while he ate. I carried on with a tragic monologue that would have made Shakespeare proud. My son tuned me out, and, truth be told, by the time he was done gagging on generic syrup, I had tired of my own voice too.
He was excused, and ordered to his room to get dressed. I steadied myself for some 'but it's Saturday!' push-back, but it never came. Tail between his legs, he went to his room and came back dressed. That 'perfect pancake' thing was more effective than I thought.
I patted myself on the back with dishpan hands.
While I might be trapped by my instinct and legal obligation to feed my son, I am free to feed him store brand syrup and remind him to like it.
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