For you to understand the depth and breadth of the emotions in this story, you have to understand three things.
One, we don’t eat out very often since eating out for a family of five resembles a mortgage payment so it is takeout for us. And when we do takeout, we head down to our favorite chicken place and bring home cajun chicken, fries, coleslaw, and gravy, for everyone except the vegan. The vegan gets something that is labeled Chick’n or Beyond Chicken. Essentially something not chicken, but thoroughly processed to resemble chicken tasting suspiciously of chick peas.
Two, the leftovers of the above chicken dinner are coveted by members of this family for breakfast the next day.
Three, I am part of the Bob Saget generation, growing up with an unhealthy amount of America’s Funniest Videos which leaves me rather insensitive occasionally when someone falls, gets hit with a ball, or a dog gets stuck in the dishwasher.
You have the background
Last week we celebrated a birthday. The immediate consensus for our family dinner was the usual chicken with all the fixings. Since I find great security knowing when and what my next meal is going to be, I thoughtfully shared this information with various members of our family should they feel the same angst. Following sharing this news, one of our young adults approached me.
Mom, is Nanna going to join us?
Yes, she’s coming.
Oh good, I’m glad Nanna is coming…then they trailed off.
You’re worried about the leftovers, aren’t you.
This worry is not unfounded. While Nanna does make an insignificant dent in the chicken consumption, one of the young adults is up very early in the morning for work and is notorious for finishing off leftovers leaving nothing for other leftover seekers. There is no beating this early worm as the only thing more precious to young adults than food is sleep.
With the additional person, there would be no worms for this non-early bird.
In the spirit of birthdays, I channeled my generosity and purchased additional chicken so that Nanna’s chicken ingestion would go unmarred by a Young Adult watching her with sadness. In fact, I purchased the next dinner pack up from the usual one - the party pack with 10 additional pieces of chicken.
The young adult after worrying about my pocket book took this news without excessive enthusiasm, but I could sense the sparkle.
Celebrations went off with a hitch. Leftovers were placed in the downstairs fridge.
Being the first to rise in the wee hours of the morning, I was well established in my work when my early bird young adult appeared. Going about their morning preparations and feeding, I stayed out of their way as conversations with young adults in the morning are about as productive as potty training a guinea pig.
All of a sudden, I heard several thumps followed by a volume of swearing. Now like when they were little, I judge the necessity of my attending to the crisis by the volume of their cries. I got up immediately.
There lying sadly on our stairs was 10+ pieces of chicken and a very angry early bird young adult. Apparently they had their breakfast and were returning the leftovers to the downstairs fridge when boxes slid and ended up in this tragic heap I was witnessing.
Sometimes I wonder how much wiser I am as an adult. Then something like this happens, and I realize that I have moments when I am a sage.
My first impulse was to give a gentle lecture on carrying too much down the stairs in one go. I held back.
My second impulse was to comment humorously that he gave these chickens the gift of a final flight. Again, I held back.
My third impulse was to comment on how we were witnessing the evolution of the chicken going from feathered to furred (remember, we have dogs). Again, I held back.
Instead I listened to the outflow of language and frustration, commiserated on chicken lost, helped clean up the mess, and when the young adult commented on the waste of chicken, I told him that I would eat every single piece because I was not letting that precious chicken go into the compost. They nodded and put in their commitment to join me in finishing all the chicken because we both knew there was no way their dad was going to touch it now.
And I had a moment to be grateful for the non-lecture when my young adult informed me they had tried to responsibly lessen their load heading downstairs with two boxes of chicken, a box of fries, an enormous water bottle, and a Tupperware container filled with their lunchtime chicken by leaving their coffee balancing precariously on the banister of the stairs which I had narrowly missed attending to the poultry crisis.
Small miracles for not having to clean up caffeinated chicken.
One thing was for sure…the party pack was unnecessary. There was now more than enough leftovers.
As I write this story in my head, I am currently on day three of chicken leftovers, and the idea to post popped into my mind as I was washing off my chicken for lunch.
It is comforting to know that when the moment really calls for it though I can turn off my Bob Saget immaturity and show real empathy.
Why did the chicken cross the road?
To get away from our house because we throw chickens down the stairs.
And because I am slightly psychic, I know what you’re thinking…
What the cluck! Seriously Jane, what the cluck!
I blame Bob.
I dream of a world where chickens can cross the road without having their motives questioned. - Charlie the Chicken
PS I tried to find a great clip of America’s Funniest, but it appears it does not age well. I hated any video that involved an animal falling/somersaulting or a child being filmed while having a temper tantrum so maybe there’s hope for me yet.
A Beautiful Thing
One of my young adults has developed an interest in hiking. I am over the moon. I had been searching for a hiking buddy who I would be comfortable being slow with. Hiking with my own children is the best as them thinking I am slow is the baseline of our relationship.
We have done two hikes and have now been joined by another young adult. I was corrected a few weeks ago by my YA who when I told a friend we were hiking. They said that I had gone on one hike and could not be considered to be a hiker. Now we have done two and are scheduled for another this weekend. How many hikes does it take before you are hiker?
I have determined that it requires no hikes to be a hiker. If you have a love of nature, enjoy a walk, and embody a sense of adventure all packed deep down in your heart with no actual steps made, I deem you a hiker. Just like you can be a writer before you actually write or an artist before you paint.
But just don’t go telling anyone that you are a hiker/artist/writer in front of a young adult. Whisper it softly. Apparently, worn down runners are the only evidence they will accept, not soul longing.
And the beautiful thing is…nature!
Notes
As an add on to last week’s post about problems, I found this article. maybe it’s less about changing perspective than trusting yourself. Problem = Self Doubt. Opportunity = Self Trust.
8 Quiet Shifts That Happen When You Start Trusting Yourself Again by Lachlan Brown
and cheerful!!
it truly is lovely to wake up to one of your posts, such a gentle way to start the day. thank you!