The Biscuit Story - Part Un

How do oldest kids survive?  Being the youngest of seven, I had it easy.  My parents were broken in; broken down, whatever.  They had learned long before I arrived which battles were worth fighting and when to let stuff slide.  Mellow is a good word for them by the time I came along.  They were tough, but there was a lot of wisdom floating around me, besides the fact that they were just too exhausted after raising the other six to fret about every little thing I did, which worked well for me. 

On the other hand, I was not a relaxed parent . . . not at the beginning, anyway.  I was only twenty-two when our first was born, so maturity wasn’t my thing yet. I understood the theory of child rearing, but I hadn’t really internalized that what kids need most is loving and hugging and listening and talking and patience and repetition and stability.

Kids don’t really care if the bathroom smells Saturday morning fresh all week long.  They don’t care how long the dishes sit in the sink.  They don’t mind if the towels aren’t folded Martha Stewart-style, or if the base-shoes haven’t been dusted.  They’re not interested in whether I finish my to-do list; they just want me to finish “Big Bird’s Big Mistake.”  Again.  And again.  Every day.

These are not bad things.  My problem was that I fought it.  I clung to the notion that if my house was clean, I was a good person, and therefore a good mother.  I believed that if I did things in order and with precision, it proved the value of my character and made me right.  About everything.  It was an illness, actually, and one day it caught up with me.  The story I’m about to tell is a tiny, insignificant story about a tiny, insignificant moment in my parenting career which changed me forever.  I warn you now that I can’t tell it without tearing up, which is mostly because I’m emotionally a wimp, but I will try to not be melodramatic.  This is simply what happened:

I was making biscuits one night for dinner.  John was in grad school.  We lived in student housing and were poorer than church mice.  Biscuits (American style – like not-sweet scones in the British Isles) were a cheap form of bread that filled my family’s stomachs in a tasty way.  I made them often, and they are delicious, just so you know.  Johnny was about three, and he wanted to help.  I loved having him near when I was baking or doing dishes – we played word games and guessing games and anything else that could occupy his mind while my hands were busy.  Actually letting him help MAKE the biscuits was a harder task for me.  That involved him getting a little dirty, handling the dough, and possibly making a mess (thereby disrupting my space/time continuum).  I was feeling like a really good mom that night, though, so I said okay. 

I wasn’t sure that he could wield the biscuit cutter without making more scraps than I wanted, so I chose to have him lift the cut biscuits and place them on the cookie sheet.  I showed him how to do it, carefully lifting the doughy discs and gently placing them on the sheet, perfectly round and perfectly spaced.  Excitedly, he reached for the next cut biscuit and, grasping it in his chubby little fingers, he carefully placed the now hopelessly squished ellipsis-like mass of dough on the cookie sheet, and I had my moment of failure.  I gasped.  Then I grabbed his hand and barked, “NO! Not like that!” 

I probably don’t need to describe to you his face.  It crumpled into a dismal mess.  He stared at me, surprised and hurt and feeling guilty for something he should never have been made to feel guilty about.  Wretched monster though I was, there was enough humanity left in me to immediately recognize my mistake, and I set about on the spot to rectify this ruined mommy-son moment.

“I’m so sorry!” I gushed, pushing the dough back into a sort of circle.  “See, it’s not so bad; I don’t know what I was worried about!  It will be just fine! It will taste just the same.  Here, try another one.  You can do it!  It’s okay, I promise.  Mommy was just being silly.”

I motioned to the remaining biscuits on the table waiting to be placed on the cookie sheet and paused for him to try again, but he only looked at me and murmured, “I can’t.  I’ll ruin it.”

I tell this story from time to time, and a lot of people tell me to let it go, to forgive myself, to not hang on to something so small and so far in the past.  That’s not the point.  I get it.  Johnny and I are just fine.  He is grown and brilliant and he loves his mother and he knows that he is practically perfect in her eyes.  Me?  I believe that people can change. I’m not the same mother who freaked out over such a silly thing. 

Sometimes, though, I think it’s good to recall a few of our mistakes so that we can remember what we used to be.  I think it ensures that we will never be that way again.  I can still see Johnny’s eyes, and I can hear his little voice, and my heart still reaches out to him and to that young mother who didn’t know any better than to break her son’s heart.  She needs my understanding, too.