Appreciated

We had a guest this weekend, a friend who moved away from our block last summer. The son who hosted him was a little worried about whether he had enjoyed his visit. "He didn't understand why phones are supposed to stay downstairs overnight," my son explained. "He said, 'But it's my phone.'" There was also the food issue: the friend didn't complain, but he also didn't eat much veggie frittata or much oven pancake.

My 14yo was thinking about hosts and guests and food, and he said something totally unexpected. He said, "Thanks for raising me not to be picky. I know I always used to say that you were serving me weird food, and you just kept telling me to try it until it didn't seem quite so weird. When I go to a friend's house I never have trouble eating what they serve me."

He thought a little more. "Yeah, I'm never in a situation where I think, 'That's too weird for me to eat.'"

"Well," he continued, "except here."

Is that as hilarious on the page as it was in the moment? Because it was hilarious in the moment.

This same kid was similarly appreciative last weekend. I came home that Friday to tall grass and bare cupboards. Tell you what, I said, I'll pick up anything you like at the grocery store if you'll go mow the grass. We wound up settling on a different plan: I would mow; he would cook dinner and clean up afterward. I don't mind mowing the grass (or at least not usually) -- it can be a contemplative undertaking when your yard isn't bent on global hegemony. When I finished up dinner was waiting for me, an un-fancy but delicious pile of potatoes and onions and eggs. After Joe finished the dishes he said, "Hey, Mom, thanks for cooking so much of the time." I started to demur, because Elwood does a lot of the cooking around here. "No," said Joe, "you cook a lot, and you wash a ton of dishes, and you never complain about it. So thanks."

You're welcome, sweetie. Thanks for noticing.