Bickering at Breakfast

Yuck. I root around in the kitchen garbage can, past the damp paper towels, dirty paper plates, crumpled paper napkins. Gosh, we use a lot of paper products . . . not very ecologically friendly . . . where is that blasted car? After my treatise on good parenting techniques two days ago, I find myself in the embarrassing position of having to admit my own shortcomings. And, speaking of embarrassing positions, here I am, crouching over a smelly garbage can, rummaging through the rubbish. It could be worse, though. At least we haven't eaten chicken in the past few days.

It all started with Daniel and Stephen squabbling, as usual, during breakfast. I was getting the twins' gym clothes ready when I heard Daniel's shriek of anger:

"That's my car! Give it back! Mama!"

"Ow!" yelled Stephen. "Mama!"

"What's going on?"

"Stephen took my car without even asking!"

"Daniel grabbed my arm!"

"Stephen, give the car back. Daniel, apologize for hurting Stephen."

"Sorry," Daniel muttered. Stephen rolled the car back across the table.

"OK, now, Stephen: why don't you try asking Daniel if you can play with the car?"

"Can I have the car?"

"No."

"Mama!"

"Come on, Daniel. You wanted him to ask, and he did. Can't he play with it for a little bit?"

"But it's my favorite one."

I gave him The Look.

"Oh, all right."

I left the room. A few minutes later, there was a crash and another shriek from the kitchen.

"What now?"

"Stephen rolled my car off the table!"

"I was returning it to him," said Stephen, all innocence.

"That is it. I have had enough of this car." I picked it up and hurled it in the garbage can.

Daniel burst into tears. "That's my favorite car!"

"Well, what was it doing on the kitchen table, then? You should have kept it in your room if you didn't want anything to happen to it," I yelled back.

I regretted it almost immediately. The other day I was criticizing Tab for making rash ultimatums, but what I did was even worse. It's just that I can't stand the way they snipe at each other. It's especially grating first thing in the morning. Not that that's any excuse.

When the boys had finished breakfast, I returned to the kitchen and decided to find the car and return it to Daniel.

I know just where I threw it--in the near left hand corner of the trash bin. So why isn't it turning up? My hands close on crusty, dried-up cheese tortellini and limp carrots, last night's leavings, but no Hot Wheels car. Eech.

Finally, I give up. My hands are sticky and smelly. I wash my arms up to my elbows. As I stand on the sink, it dawns on me that Daniel probably fished the car out himself while I was out of the kitchen. He's pretty resourceful.

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