Butter Pats on the Ceiling

     This brought to mind other incidences with food over the past few years. You see, I am convinced that there is something basically wrong with boys. Maybe with men too. They have a fondness for putting food on the ceiling. On the floor. Behind the furniture. Or scattered all over the car.
     My children had lessons in manners. I tried to keep the house in a reasonable semblance of order. Even in this shack I am "temporarily" living in, I vacuum and sweep around the boxes.
     My older son at 1yr or age, however, was a master artist with a banana. The wall near his childhood seat-table was covered with his efforts. I would scrub it down, he would repaint it. And add the occasional trimming with the teething toast.
     This is the same child who, at 18 months, when I sat him on top of the dryer in the kitchen to retie his shoes, this child, for whom I baked bread and wore out two blenders making home-made babyfood to keep him healthy, grabbed one quarter of a 10" deep-dish two-crust peach pie and gobbled half of the mess before I finished with his shoelaces.
     I stopped worrying about his diet so much. He also demonstrated a decided fondness for McDonalds hamburgers - without the bun. He also demonstrated that he was sneaky.
     He graduated to the infamous incident with the special "I hunted 'till I found them," expensive, Carob-flavored, chewable vitamins (he was still allergic to chocolate, hyperactive and attention-deficit). I moved the hope chest in the diningroom one day and found nearly 40 of them. They had been neatly ricocheted off the wall under the window in the kitchen. He had perfected this ritual over the course of several weeks - anytime I turned my back. I stood over him and watched him chew after that. I believe he was 6 or 7 by this time.

     We were in a house in Massachusetts. It had a formal dining area. Right. My older son had also by now taken an aversion to peas. I would find one now and then pinged onto the ceiling of my formal dining room. A skill he perfected after my brother, a man who has been in special forces, graduated from VMI, worked in the army, driven a tank and wore fatiques - all items that attract small boys - showed my children how to embed drinking straw covers into the acoustical ceiling at a nearby McDonalds.
     This is the same man who explained to my kids how, while at VMI, he learned how to splat butter pats on the ceiling using his military dress leather belt. My children, especially the older one, listened avidly. Trips to McDonalds were never the same.

     My ex, one of them, had made a mistake one night at work. While hurrying to get done with dinner, he had stuck a raw egg into a microwave oven. For several minutes. One hour later he was still cleaning. When I got a microwave, I repeated this story to my children since I did not want that sort of accident. Either with eggs or potatoes. My older son, his child, took this story to heart. He perfected it. Hard-boiled eggs heated in the microwave for 20-30 seconds look harmless. But, if you stand them upright, and poke a fork prong or a toothpick into the top, they will "fire" the now-liquid egg yolk at the ceiling. Great contrast to the occasional pea. My older child was now a teenager. The younger one was close behind and watching.

     Of course it can't complete with what they did to my cars. No matter which car, some child had christened it. I don't need to elaborate to those of you with children. My new truck is the only car I've had for years that didn't carry that kind of battle scar. (The dog feels it is her duty to take over.) And they always had barbecue sauce from McDonalds in half-empty stepped-on containers. Sticky spilled soda. The loose French fry, with or without ketchup. I got into the habit of having my car detailed annually. Sort of baselining it. Come to think of it, it's time....
     By now I was in San Diego, in my real house, the one that is currently rented to someone else while I sit in this cramped box in Fremont. My lovely San Diego home, the one I tried extra hard to keep organized and neat.
     And my children had grown. My older one was an older and rebellious teen. I tried and tried to keep food consumable in the lower level. Confine the mess to the floor that could be washed. It worked until he hit about 14-15. Boys loose it at that point.
     They ignore the need to brush their teeth. They ignore the need to bathe - unless threatened with a garden hose. (Belonging to the pool and racquet club helped.) They sprawl on couches to eat and leave the plates behind. Occasional temper tantrums will get the plates back in the kitchen. Might get the dishwasher unloaded. Will get the garbage taken out. I periodically buy silverware to replace the missing and the lost.
     Teenage boys like popcorn in bags in their room. And they keep the remains. In piles. Along with pizza crusts, empty (or not) soda cans, and the random fork.
     Living in San Diego helped - I would feed them outside. Let the wildlife contend. Use paper plates and let them play with fire. Burn the evidence. Keep mother sane.
     I also sent them to camp every summer - for as long as I could. I encouraged them working at camp - my older one would be gone 9 weeks at a time three summers running. I always redecorated his room. And cleaned it. (I liked to pretend that was its normal appearance.)

     My brother has not helped the issue. On one trip, from LA to SD, by motorcycle, he came in and turned on the stove to heat coffee. It was Thansgiving and the turkey was in the oven. The yams were sliced in a casserole dish on top of the stove. He turned on the wrong burner. I heard a POP and couldn't figure it out. The yams were still in place. On second look, they were in place without their glass casserole dish! Needless to say, it took awhile to clean up and we had something else for dinner. For his birthday, my children, to retaliate, decorated a large yam and presented it to him. Since then, they have never looked at Yams the same way. They also refuse to eat them.
     Of course, this is the brother who insisted you could heat parafin without putting it in a pot of water - I finally cut the insallation away from the stove-top burner 6 months later to stop the fumes and eventually replaced the whole stove.
     He also, when my youngest was 2, as we were leaving Disneyland , picked him up while he was smoking a cigar, lifted him over his head and sat him on his sholders. Of course, he had also set him on fire. The glowing specks caused his mother (me) to beat it out with her hands - causing some confusion until I could become coherant again. The cigar burned through the brand-new Disneyland sweatshirt, his undershirt and had stopped at the belt, which was melted. My brother's shirt also had burn flecks. It turned out to be a $70 dollar cigar. I went home and died my hair. My brother stopped smoking.

     My older child no longer lives at home. He has his own apartment. He cleans with lysol and vacuums and is involved in decorating. He drives a brand-new $22,000 Tacoma truck that is better than anything I have ever been able to afford. I am watching him. I am planning to be sick one day....
     My younger child is now 16 and is heavily involved in the food nesting activity his brother taught him. This is the child who used to maticulously roll his socks and organize his underwear. I lost control somewhere, probably when we moved to Northern California and I lost a kitchen and space for a table. It rains and is cold. There is ice on the windshield in the morning. I can't very well feed him outdoors.
     I rake his room - literally. Every month. I enjoy staying home from Boy Scout outings so I can spend 4-5 hours on a Saturday just trying to find the floor. Really. He builds pyramids of soda cans (not all empty), plays bowling with the cider jugs. I don't mind buying apple juice - I just object to finding the bluemold floating on the top of the forgotten remainder in the bottom of the jug stuck in the corner of his room somewhere between the bed, TV and desk. Surrounded by empty ice cream and candy wrappers and other debris. Maybe it's a chemistry experiment.

     He thinks he is moving back into the San Diego house to go to college. (Ha!) With roommates and a maid. I'm waiting to see if he improves as he passes 16 and realizes he must be neat to pursue other interests. (Hmmmmm.) There is some evidence of this beginning to occur- he spent an entire weekend scrubbing the white van I had repurchased from the older boy (so he could afford his truck). (Don't ask.). Now that the 16 year old will soon be driving the van (he's too tall to take my truck), he feels it needs to be serviced, have good tires and not be so dirty. There is hope on the horizon!
     I also hope to live in my pretty house again someday. And I no longer serve peas. Well, not too often anyway.