When my six year old daughter acts like she does, I close my eyes and count, “one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten – it’s her age, I hope.” I tell my friends that right now she’s going through a difficult period and they are courteous enough not to remind me that I’ve been saying that for the last six years.
And the mothers of adolescent daughters laugh raucously, “Just wait til she’s 13.” So I wonder where turmoil ends and calm begins. It seems to me that there must be some delicious interval where behavior is civilized and worry is nil. However, if my observations are correct, I believe all three of mine have already passed that interval.
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If you discount diapers and formulas, I rather think the first year is the ideal period. Perhaps I will truly realize this with my sixth and won’t say to myself, “When I no longer have to wash diapers, I can really enjoy my young.”
For in the second year is learning to walk, and broken lamps and falling down stairs; the third year is calling the police to locate a wandering child five or six blocks away and the first swear word spoken innocently, but oh so aptly, in front of dinner guests; the fourth year is discontent, too young to do the things they want to do and too old to do the things they can do; the fifth year is kindergarten, concern over clothes, a sudden alarming independence wherein mothers and fathers are merely obstacles to fun, and an intensified aversion to rest in the afternoons; the sixth year – but this is where I came in. Who brought this up anyway?
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Either I’m lazy or I estimate beyond my strength. I always have such plans. I avidly read all fascinating magazines and newspaper recipes and dream of the herbs and flavors which will make meals “different.” But somehow the same old meat, vegetable, salad routine finds its way to my table. With an apple pie thrown in occasionally for variety.
And when the grocery boy delivered the crate of peaches, I could see in my mind’s eye the peach pies, peach cobblers, broiled peach halves and upside down cake. I was going to make – and a little jam, too, maybe. The last peach is gone now and we ate every last one, sliced with sugar and cream. Either I’m lazy or I estimate beyond my strength.
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