EAT IT!

Yesterday was Matilda’s first day at her new school. Starting third grade in a new school, with no established friends, must have been a terrifying experience. I mean, you’re starting fresh, at a disadvantage to all of the other kids. Or so I thought.

Sunday night we knocked off reading early so she could get to bed early and rest up. She yelled, “Yay!” and went to bed.

Um. Okay.

She was up at the crack of dawn, sitting in front of the door with her backpack on, new outfit and hair already professionally coiffed and ready to go. Mom and I questioned her intensely. Do you have your pencils? Your paper? Your folders? Are you sure that your outfit is sufficiently cool for your first day of school? It’s not too late to buy something else. I can go out and get you something right now. I’ll sew it from drapes, napkins and cat fur from the carpet.

No. She was fine. One hour before the bus was due to arrive, she was ready to go. We waited and waited and finally it was time.

We stood there, meeting the other neighborhood parents. Talking and enjoying things. Matilda surveyed the world, saw the other kids and when the bus came, she gave us a half wave and hopped on.

We worried all day long. Was she fitting in? Was she figuring out the lunch routine? Did she find her class?

Turns out everything went fine. Go figure. Our eight year old is more mature than we are.

Because we both took the day off from work, I was able to spend some quality alone time with Gertrude. Mom had set her up with a little doll house and dolls in the play area and we when I came down Gertrude yelled, “UNDER WATER!” All of the dolls were either swimming in the doll pool or she had been recreating a scene from the Salem Witch trials.

The daddy doll was cooking something on the grill and I selected a doll that I was to act out my version of the events. I picked a rather effete looking boy doll in a strange Victorian bonnet and night gown. I named him Edvard.

“Why Edvard, it’s nice to meet you. Edvard is an interesting name. Are you Norwegian?”

“No. I’m Irish.”

“But, isn’t Edvard a Norwegian name? Why did your parents name you Edvard?”

“Flemish paintings. They are big fans of existential anguish.”

My scene amused Gertrude, as Edvard let it be known that he was your typical Gothic child and he was obsessed with the Vicorian concepts of death. But, she moved on.

She took two of the babies and set them up in high chairs in the doll house. Then she moved over to the play kitchen and made them some sort of stew of plastic food. I think it was stew. It contained a potato, plastic peanut butter, a tomato, a whole roasting chicken, two scoops of ice cream and a donut.

She sat down in front of the babies and served them the meal. She was quiet for a moment when a cloud of darkness washed over her face. “EAT IT!” The babies did not move. “EAT IT!” At this point, her voice took on a slight Germanic tinge and she began to march around the room, demanding that her children eat her particularly yummy stew.

The children eventually relented and ate the stew while Gertrude watch disapprovingly. I wasn’t quite sure where this behavior came from. As far as I know, we rarely had Dickensonian lunches where we demand that the children eat under our steely, watchful gaze.

Eventually, her cuteness wore me down and I eventually forgot all about it.

Later that night, after baths we were sitting at the kitchen table eating an evening snack. Gertrude had a tiny bowl of Chex which she was shoveling into her mouth with the dainty care of Henry VIII eating a Boar’s leg.

As she finished her bowl, she plunged her chubby little fingers into the milk and seized one piece of soggy Chex in in fingers.

“EAT IT!” she yelled, authorotatively as she shoved the soggy cereal unexpectedly into my mouth.

And I did. Out of fear.

Discuss