Cindy glanced nervously at the clock
on the kitchen wall. Five minutes before midnight.
"They should be home any time now," she thought as she put the finishing touches on the chocolate cake she was frosting. It was the first time in her 12 years she had tried to make a cake from scratch, and to be honest, it wasn't exactly an aesthetic triumph. The cake was . . . well, lumpy. And the frosting was bitter, as if she had run out of sugar or something.
"They should be home any time now," she thought as she put the finishing touches on the chocolate cake she was frosting. It was the first time in her 12 years she had tried to make a cake from scratch, and to be honest, it wasn't exactly an aesthetic triumph. The cake was . . . well, lumpy. And the frosting was bitter, as if she had run out of sugar or something.
Which, of course, she had.
And then there was the
way the kitchen looked. Imagine a huge blender filled with all the ingredients
for chocolate cake – including the requisite bowls, pans and utensils. Now
imagine that the blender is turned on. High speed. With the lid off.
But Cindy wasn't thinking about the
mess. She had created something, a veritable phoenix of flour and sugar rising
out of the kitchen clutter. She was anxious for her parents to return home from
their date so she could present her anniversary gift to them. She turned off
the kitchen lights and waited excitedly in the darkness. When at last she saw
the flash of the car headlights, she positioned herself in the kitchen doorway.
By the time she heard the key sliding into the front door, she was THIS CLOSE
to exploding.
Her parents tried to slip in
quietly, but Cindy would have none of that. She flipped on the lights
dramatically and trumpeted: "Ta-daaa!" She gestured grandly toward
the kitchen table, where a slightly off-balance two-layer chocolate cake
awaited their inspection.
But her mother's eyes never made it all the way to the table.
But her mother's eyes never made it all the way to the table.
"Just look at this mess!"
she moaned. "How many times have I talked to you about cleaning up after
yourself?"
"But Mom, I was only . .
."
"I should make you clean this
up right now, but I'm too tired to stay up with you to make sure you get it
done right," her mother said. "So you'll do it first thing in the
morning."
"Honey," Cindy's father interjected gently, "take a look at the table."
"Honey," Cindy's father interjected gently, "take a look at the table."
"I know – it’s a mess,"
his wife said coldly. "The whole kitchen is a disaster. I can't stand to
look at it." She stormed up the stairs and into her room, slamming the
door shut behind her.
For a few moments Cindy and her
father stood silently, neither one knowing what to say. At last she looked up
at him, her eyes moist and red.
"She never saw the cake,"
she said.
Unfortunately, Cindy's mother isn't
the only parent who has the occasional inability to see the forest for the
trees. From time to time we all allow ourselves to be blinded to issues of long-term
significance by Stuff That Seems Awfully Important Right Now – but isn't. Muddy
shoes, lost lunch money and messy kitchens are troublesome, and they deserve
their place among life's frustrations. But what's a little mud – even on new
carpet – compared to a child's self-esteem? Is a lost dollar more valuable than
a youngster's emerging dignity? And while kitchen sanitation is important, is
it worth the sacrifice of tender feelings and relationships?
I'm not saying that our children
don't need to learn responsibility, or to occasionally suffer the painful
consequences of bad choices. Those lessons are vital, and need to be carefully
taught. But as parents we must never forget that we're not teaching lessons –
we’re teaching children. That means there are times when we need to see the
mess in the kitchen.
And times when we only need to see
the cake.
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