On the way home from school earlier this week Declan expressed to me his dread around the upcoming Thanksgiving lunch to be served at his school. "This week we have our feast and I am really scared," he said.
I was certainly confused as to why he would be afraid of a lunch at his school that I would be attending and asked him to explain.
"Because we are cooking for you and I don't know how to cook anything," he said emphatically.
I have to admit I enjoyed his anxiety way more than I should have. I couldn't help but recognize and relate to the anguish he was expressing on his face, especially after all the stress he has shoveled on me with his proclamations that nearly all of the meals I so diligently toil to prepare, are nothing more than "yucky food."
I maintained my composure of course and explained to him that I was confident the teachers and chefs would give each of the students assisting them their own simple little project. And that, when combined with everyone else's work, it would result in a fantastic meal that everyone would enjoy and he would enjoy preparing.
My mind has been racing ever since that conversation to find some logical rationalization, a justification that my conscience would accept, that would allow me to sit down next to Declan during that Friday feast and before I take my first bite proclaim, "This is all yucky food!"
I don't anticipate finding my answer this week and would estimate that I am 85 percent certain I will be very complimentary of the children's food. But I have made a promise to myself that someday I will get my revenge.
Maybe I am slowly realizing why my mother suddenly became such a smart aleck to me during my high school years, after all by then our children are all young adults right?