Our table is littered with pimentos. This is dinner time. This is messy. I am laughing my head off. My daughters eat like animals. Claire is a bird, picking and pecking at meager portions. In fact, she is more like a hummingbird, searching for sugar diluted in water. Margot is a fox, scavenging for meat. Brown & Serve is her meat. Bacon is her potatoes.
At some point we should force variety down their throats. We should also introduce the virtue of cleaning the table. If it is not pimentos from the Spanish olives, it is globs of oatmeal, streaks of honey, or amputated bread crusts making the tabletop a Martha Stewart no-no (or Jackson Pollack canvas).
As parents we are bad examples. We let our kids climb on furniture, jump off bunk beds, cross the street, steer the car, pound sugar, and flatulate (not in public). To misquote Shakespeare, all the world is their playground, and they are merely playing.
More than once Liz and I have felt scrutinized by other adults and parents. When we feel their red eyes fall on us, we invite them home to feed the girls and put them to bed at eight. To date we have had no takers. (Okay, we never really asked.)
Fortunately, Liz and I are on the same page. We want our daughters to celebrate each day. Tomorrow they may grow old and responsible and anxious... if the Lord wills. Then again, tomorrow is never a guarantee (James 4:13-17).
Meanwhile, I am laughing. Our table has measles. Our table has freckles. Our table needs serious attention because it is covered by pimentos my daughters spat out because they looked like demon eyes and felt like boogers. Oddly enough, if they were really boogers, my daughters probably would have eaten them.