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Back in the days when my kids were very young, I had some strict kitchen rules which were constructed mainly to save my sanity. The chief among these rules were: meals were served when meals were served (“I am not running a restaurant here!”), and although menu ideas were always appreciated, I got to choose what was ultimately served (“You get what you get, and you don’t get upset!”). Some of my kids’ friends had moms who offered many choices and didn’t seem to mind fixing special meals for each of their special kids, but that wasn’t my way. The way I rationalized this strictness was this: I’d rather that all of us were out of the kitchen and doing other things (like the play ground or the library). There was some bitter grumbling, I have to admit, but the rules stuck.
Until…my kids moved out of the house, into their own apartments, and showed up for meals once in a great while. This Easter weekend, for example, Ben woke up first and ambled into the kitchen looking for breakfast. My husband and I had already eaten hours earlier, but I volunteered to make him exactly the kind of breakfast his heart most desired:
which was much appreciated. Ben ate with great gusto, and remarked (more than once) how different this was from times past, when kitchen rules ruled.
Two hours later, Elizabeth shuffled downstairs in search of coffee and something to eat…voila! Breakfast #2!:
Both kids agreed how lovely it was to have these newer and kinder kitchen rules. And for the moment, I am going along.