I don’t know about you, but I, as an adult, have visions sometimes, wavering mirages of gorgeousness in which my husband and I sit round our dining table, accompanied by our three charming children, eating a delicious home cooked meal, and chatting animatedly about life, the universe and everything. It’s wonderful.
It’s utter bollocks.
Take this evening. One child was missing, gone gallivanting off to a friend’s (not that you’ll hear any complaints from me on that score. One less mouth to feed is always a bonus day in our house), the other two were balanced precariously on their seats in various states of undress and acrobaticism. Both were eating fish fingers and potato waffles (bad mummy, bad mummy), smothered in ketchup and flinging forkfuls around with gay abandon whilst talking simultaneously at the tops of their voices about two entirely different things.
I was still standing, filling drinks, wiping fish finger based gunk off of household appliances and trying to cobble together something edible for adults that had vitamins in it somewhere.
Jason entered stage left. He commenced to produce a Whoopee cushion in the manner of the Great Soprendo; ‘Icky, Acky, Tracky’ or whatever gobbledegook he used to say.
He then spent a hilarious twenty minutes blowing up said Whoopee cushion and sitting on it in a number of comedy poses for the edification of the children. Cue more fork flinging and general fish finger detritus. They particularly liked the faces where he pretended he had a terrible stomach ache which only a fart of epic proportions could eradicate.
He then spent another twenty minutes teaching the children to do the same thing.
He is a comedy God, and his star as top banana father remains ever glowing and entirely undiminished.
My dreams of sophisticated dining ebb like the tide on a wet bank holiday in Skegness. Currently they are six miles out and still going.
This brought back a few memories! My husband had one of them too; he loved it. Not only did he think farting was endlessly funny but, as a consequence, so do our daughters. Still. As to fine family dining, hah! I say, hah!, hah! and thrice hah! On the rare occasions I can get all three of us round the same meal table at the same time there is always an argument and it often leads to a fight – in which I am referee rather than participant I hasten to add – and someone leaving the table half way through and stamping up to their room viciously slamming every door they pass. We have to eat out to get relatively civilised behaviour as they don’t do that sort of thing in public (thank nathan, cheezus et al).
Alienne
Maybe I’ll go and sit in with another family. A family who are well behaved and civilised, and just pretend they belong to me in a weird, stalkerish sort of way.
When the boys were younger many, if not most, of our meals were eaten in silence after I had to resort to the old ‘if you can’t be civil be silent’ speech. These days it’s rare that we are all together for a home-based meal and, given the current state of relations between the boys, it’s probable it would be just the same.
Update – younger son has found a new home and will be moving out in one month. Elder son is alternately cheering at the prospect of no more annoying brother and complaining as he now has to find a new housemate.
Sharon
That sounds much like relations between our three at the moment. Perhaps its something in the air.