Here are some photos of last night's repast. I set out to make chicken wings on the grill as a peace offering to my family. The holy family wasn't much of either on Sunday. The kids were playing in jest when Matthew failed to realize his strength and threw something a little too hard at Rebecca, hitting her on the end of her nose. Neither of them wanted me to know they were engaged in stupid horseplay, so when I kept asking what was going on (because I heard the bathroom sink running and lots of toilet paper being extracted from the roll) they kept saying "nothing".
I bounded up the steps and found my bathroom floor resembling the Italian restaurant where Michael Corleone took out the corrupt police captain and The Turk. And even though I'm a nurse, I freaked, because this was a serious nose bleed that happened as a result of them acting stupid. I really lost my temper with my son. And I had no idea how cruel my words were until I saw his eyes fill with tears. I wanted to throttle my daughter, too, for her lack of self-control, but I was more concerned with whether we'd have to make a trip to the hospital to get the bleeding cauterized. Because of all the cardiac meds she's on, bleeding is more of an issue for her than it is for the normal person.
A box of tissue and some ice cubes later, it was all under control, with no lasting damage except for the hurt feelings. I know just what my son was thinking. He was thinking that his mother hates him. Am I saying he should have been rewarded for his impulsive behavior? Absolutely not, but I could have chosen my words more carefully. A little hard to do when you're getting ready to leave for dinner and you have to staunch the hemorrhage of your youngest progeny. But Matt is usually as gentle as a lamb and I know he wouldn't hurt his baby sister intentionally. And I know he was provoked because when it comes to her brother, Rebecca is often lacking in self-control. And she can dish it out as well as she can take it.
Whenever something like this happens, and I am reminded of how far from perfect I am, I am tempted to give in to doubt. All kinds of nagging things come to mind.
You're a failure as a mother
If you weren't a failure, this would never have happened
Stuff like this doesn't happen to the good mothers.
And so on and so on.
Some way to spend Sunday.
And then I am reminded that at times like this, there is only one choice, and that is to pick up that cross and continue the journey with it. And there is a reason for times like this. The Good Lord knows when I need to be cut down to size. Suffice it to say, I was.
Anyway, about the chicken wings. I didn't want to subject myself to the smoke of the grill, so I did them in the oven. I was really tired and not paying attention and instead of the rotisserie chicken seasoning, I accidentally grabbed the cinnamon and was half-way through sprinkling it on the wings before I realized my error. So they became a kind of jerk-style wings. Everyone was too hungry to notice, or if they did, they were afraid to speak up.
Potatoes and string beans were a staple at the dinner table when I was growing up, except if they weren't drowned in tomato sauce, my father wouldn't eat them. I prefer to saute mine in olive oil with garlic and onion and throw in some Portabellas thrown in for good measure.
Nothing like a good dinner and being taken down a few notches on the humility scale to bring us back together again.
