wonderful dinner of overcooked macaroni and cheese accompanied by a very plain salad of iceberg lettuce covered with far too much dressing. All through the meal, my inside smile was wide and happy and warm.
Once we finished eating, however, things started to change.
Oliver pushed his chair back and jumped up. “I did the dishes last night, so it’s your turn, Jenna.”
My daughter’s face, which up until now had been sunny and clear, darkened. “I did all the cooking.”
“Not all,” Oliver said, his chin jutting out. “I ripped up the lettuce.”
“That’s not cooking,” Jenna countered. “That’s just . . . just doing the lettuce.”
“And I put cheese on the salads.”
“Too much cheese,” she muttered.
“It was not too much!” Oliver said in a near-shout.
“Was, too.”
“Was not!”
I was opening my mouth to call a time-out when the front doorbell rang. Before anyone could call dibs on getting the door, a male voice called out, “Anybody home?”
The moment we heard Pete’s voice, the mounting tension in the room started to ebb. “In the kitchen,” I called. By the time he walked into the room, his cheerful grin in place, any leftover bits of stress and strain had faded away completely.
“It’s snowing,” he said. “And it’s the perfect temperature to build a snowman.”
“A snowman?” Oliver’s truculent chin slid back to its normal position. “Can we go out, Mom? Can we?”
“I want to build a snowwoman,” Jenna said. “I can give her my old goalie stick.”
My gaze went from one child to the other. Then it went to the uncleared table. And the unwashed dishes.
“We, um, could do them after we come back inside?” Oliver asked. “Mr. Peterson said the temperature is perfect right now. That won’t last very long. You don’t want us to miss the best snowman-making weather of the winter, do you?”
My eyebrows rose. When had my son learned that little trick?
“Many hands make light work,” Pete said easily.
I shook my head. “Pete, sit down. You’ve been working all day. You don’t need to—”
But he ignored me. “Come on, Ollster, you clear the table. Jenna can put the food away, right, Jenna? And I’ll fill up the dishwasher.”
Jenna pointed. “Mom always makes us wash that pot by hand.”
Mom, the ogre.
“And a good thing she does,” Pete said. “It’ll last a lifetime that way. Come on, time’s wasting away while you two mawple about.” He clapped his hands lightly and the kids sprang into action.
I watched Oliver speed from table to kitchen counter and back. Watched Jenna spoon the leftover mac and cheese into a plastic container that was a little too small. “‘Mawple’?” I asked.
“Combination of ‘dawdle’ and ‘mope,’” he said. “I just made it up. What do you think?” He grinned and headed for the dishwasher.
In less time than it had taken the kids to argue about the chore, the kitchen was clean and we were bundling up into boots, coats, hats, and mittens. Spot, our brown dog, bounced among us barking happy barks and we tumbled out into the snowy night.
The sky was dark with night, but there was plenty of light from the houses and from the streetlights to illuminate our efforts. Jenna’s snow-hockey player took shape quickly, but Oliver’s traditional snowman needed all of Pete’s strength to lift the middle ball into place.
“Ooof!” Pete grunted. “What’d you make this thing out of, gold? Lead? Boxes of
National Geographic
magazines?”
Jenna ran to the garage and came back with a cracked goalie stick. She propped it up against her freshly made masterpiece. “I like her. She’s original, not like the snowmen some other people around here make.”
“What’s wrong with my snowman?” Oliver, puffy from head to toe in winter gear, stuck his chin out again. “At least mine doesn’t—” The end of his sentence was lost forever when a feathery snowball hit him in the chest and exploded.
At that
Once we finished eating, however, things started to change.
Oliver pushed his chair back and jumped up. “I did the dishes last night, so it’s your turn, Jenna.”
My daughter’s face, which up until now had been sunny and clear, darkened. “I did all the cooking.”
“Not all,” Oliver said, his chin jutting out. “I ripped up the lettuce.”
“That’s not cooking,” Jenna countered. “That’s just . . . just doing the lettuce.”
“And I put cheese on the salads.”
“Too much cheese,” she muttered.
“It was not too much!” Oliver said in a near-shout.
“Was, too.”
“Was not!”
I was opening my mouth to call a time-out when the front doorbell rang. Before anyone could call dibs on getting the door, a male voice called out, “Anybody home?”
The moment we heard Pete’s voice, the mounting tension in the room started to ebb. “In the kitchen,” I called. By the time he walked into the room, his cheerful grin in place, any leftover bits of stress and strain had faded away completely.
“It’s snowing,” he said. “And it’s the perfect temperature to build a snowman.”
“A snowman?” Oliver’s truculent chin slid back to its normal position. “Can we go out, Mom? Can we?”
“I want to build a snowwoman,” Jenna said. “I can give her my old goalie stick.”
My gaze went from one child to the other. Then it went to the uncleared table. And the unwashed dishes.
“We, um, could do them after we come back inside?” Oliver asked. “Mr. Peterson said the temperature is perfect right now. That won’t last very long. You don’t want us to miss the best snowman-making weather of the winter, do you?”
My eyebrows rose. When had my son learned that little trick?
“Many hands make light work,” Pete said easily.
I shook my head. “Pete, sit down. You’ve been working all day. You don’t need to—”
But he ignored me. “Come on, Ollster, you clear the table. Jenna can put the food away, right, Jenna? And I’ll fill up the dishwasher.”
Jenna pointed. “Mom always makes us wash that pot by hand.”
Mom, the ogre.
“And a good thing she does,” Pete said. “It’ll last a lifetime that way. Come on, time’s wasting away while you two mawple about.” He clapped his hands lightly and the kids sprang into action.
I watched Oliver speed from table to kitchen counter and back. Watched Jenna spoon the leftover mac and cheese into a plastic container that was a little too small. “‘Mawple’?” I asked.
“Combination of ‘dawdle’ and ‘mope,’” he said. “I just made it up. What do you think?” He grinned and headed for the dishwasher.
In less time than it had taken the kids to argue about the chore, the kitchen was clean and we were bundling up into boots, coats, hats, and mittens. Spot, our brown dog, bounced among us barking happy barks and we tumbled out into the snowy night.
The sky was dark with night, but there was plenty of light from the houses and from the streetlights to illuminate our efforts. Jenna’s snow-hockey player took shape quickly, but Oliver’s traditional snowman needed all of Pete’s strength to lift the middle ball into place.
“Ooof!” Pete grunted. “What’d you make this thing out of, gold? Lead? Boxes of
National Geographic
magazines?”
Jenna ran to the garage and came back with a cracked goalie stick. She propped it up against her freshly made masterpiece. “I like her. She’s original, not like the snowmen some other people around here make.”
“What’s wrong with my snowman?” Oliver, puffy from head to toe in winter gear, stuck his chin out again. “At least mine doesn’t—” The end of his sentence was lost forever when a feathery snowball hit him in the chest and exploded.
At that
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