Michael and I hardly ever argue anymore. At this point, we find few things worth the energy for a good spat. When we do argue, it’s almost always about dinner. Our first big argument as a married couple came after the first dinner we cooked for our families. That argument must have set a pattern. I think we just both approach dinner differently. Translation: He is wrong.
This weekend, our beloved children were dreadful. It was just one of those days with kids. They were whiny and demanding and nothing suited them. Given that, we decided on Chinese take out for dinner. We knew the kids wouldn’t eat anyway and would behave badly through the entire meal. Also, putting them in the car gave us an excuse for restraining Rosy Posy, the two year old, so she couldn’t climb on anything else. I swear, the child defies gravity. With the kids sufficiently and safely restrained in carseats, Michael and I had an opportunity to have a cup of coffee in relative peace. Hello Starbucks!
When we got home, what did Michael do but start emptying the little cartons of food onto plates. Why? Why in the name of all that’s holy would a person purposely create the need to wash dishes where no need previously existed? I do not understand this. I will never understand this. Our five-year-old son started to throw a fit because he wanted to eat out of the carton. You know what? I totally had to side with the kid on this one. Michael’s reasoning was that the container was filled all the way to the top and the kids would surely make a mess. At that point, I directed his attention to our daughter, who was merrily pouring her drink onto the floor. What was that you were saying about a mess, Dear?
So Michael ate his lo mein from a plate while the kids and I ate our fried rice from cardboard containers like the savages we are. When dinner was over, our son, who is being very deliberative about his nickname for this blog, asked for “one of those cookies with the paper inside.”
Michael replied that he didn’t buy any.
Predictably, all hell broke loose, and I once more found myself siding with the children. What is the point of eating Chinese food if you can’t eat straight from the containers AND get a fortune cookie at the end? Michael’s argument– again, wrong– was that the cookies taste awful. True, but THAT IS NOT THE POINT! It’s not about the cookie! It’s about the bit of ancient wisdom inside. And the lottery numbers. Seriously, how can he not know this?
Ultimately, I think we can put that dinner in the loss column. I would say that at least Michael learned a valuable lesson, but our years of marriage have convinced me that there is just no teaching the man.