Clear back in March of 1990, the ship I was teaching on, the
USS Cape Cod, pulled into San Diego after I had ridden it across the Pacific
from Atsugi, Japan. Once I got to San
Diego, I got to see my friends, Mark and Barbara, their two beyond adorable
daughters (Erin Nicole, then six and Seana Christine, about to turn three) and
their infant brother Bryant Edward, then four months.
If you have never had the experience of seeing a
six-year-old and a three-year-old jumping around with excitement, “It’s Uncle
Kent! It’s Uncle Kent!”…trust me, I
wouldn’t trade that for anything in the world.
That night at dinner (which was a really delicious dish of pasta, ground
beef and fried tomatoes—yes, I remember what Barbara cooked twenty-three years
later), Erin and Seana were doing their
eating-like-little-kids bit. That’s
where you divide your food into nine neat piles, you stir them around and put
your fork down before you give an expression that seems to say, “Sorry, I’m not
hungry.” Mark said very quietly, “Barbara,
when you finish eating, if those girls haven’t cleaned up their plates, they’re
going to bed. And don’t eat slowly to
give them more time.”
At that gesture, I made a point of eating a large forkful of
pasta and ground beef and pronouncing it yummy.
(What I am I going to do, say, “Girls, you don’t have to eat that?” I don’t think so.) I am proud to report that, by the time
Barbara had cleaned her plate, Erin had cleaned hers and Seana had done the
same. By the way, I had cleaned up my
plate, too. And if anyone is snickering,
you can just knock it off, because if *you* were there, you would have done the
same thing!
(This may look like a brand new plate, but it's actually what the dishes look like after people eat Barbara's food.)
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