At the Dinner Table

"Do you want me to throw that pot of spaghetti sauce?" "You better ask Linda if she is going to clean it up, because I sure as hell am not going to do it." Having come home from college, I developed a smidgen of moxie while being away from him as much as he would allow. But I had learned earlier on that when he was confronted on his behavior, he would back down. I don't enjoy my food. I am unable to sit down to dinner to savor my meal; I engulf my food as quickly as possible and clear the table. Even while visiting Paris, where Parisians are known to move slowly with their dining fare, I made haste, inhaling my meal. A nurse once told me that this is a trait of abused children as much of the abuse often happened at the dinner table. My oldest son and my step-son are choosey eaters, to put it mildly. Christopher only eats "meat." We are a vegetarian household. My son hates "dinner." Everything, and I. Mean. Every. Thing we put in front of him, without tasting it, he blurts, "I hate this!" Dinner is a battle that is wearing both my husband and my nerves thin. My internal reactions to this behavior are strong. It is times like these that I am brought back to dinner time during my childhood. If you didn't like a meal, or a new food was introduced to the table that Ron didn't want, there were dire consequences. Soon after we moved in with him, his nephew Johnny came to live with us. Johnny was a sociopath in the making from early on. And Ron did what he could to solidify it with his abuse. Johnny either complained about his meal or made faces, or something that a 4 year old kid does, and Ron pushed his head into his dinner. Bits of carrots and peas and goo dripped from his face onto his lap. It was a striking scene. Unfortunately, for me, this scene plays in my own mind as I grow frustrated with my son, tempted to do the same. The thoughts peak when my mother is present. To avoid this from happening the first time my step-son gave me a difficult time with a meal, I put on my shoes, grabbed my purse and walked out, driving to the movie theatre to settle down for Toy Story 3 for the evening. Children learn what they live; and what they learn doesn't disappear when they reach adulthood; they carry it with them. I have to rewrite the scene to play it out differently so as to avoid this type of despicable behavior toward a child. There's more. My brother Sam hated creamed dried beef. Then again, what kid does like it? It's called shit-on-a-shingle for a reason. My brother protested eating it. He put a tablespoon of it on his plate. When he refused more, my step-father had us all pour our portion back into the yellow mixing bowl and give it to him, where he demanded my brother eat the entire bowl of s-o-s. Once, he argued with my mother over peas. He threatened to throw the bowl. She said, "Go ahead." And he did, breaking the only serving bowl of their fine China wedding pattern. Both my mother and I were demanded to clean the mess. And we did. Hot dogs were thrown. Temper tantrums over meals were commonplace. Have you ever attempted to pick out shredded wheat from a shag carpet? My mother had just had a hysterectomy and was home recuperating. Ron commanded me to make him shredded wheat. I would often mix up how he liked it: do I put the sugar on first and then pour the milk? Or do I pour the milk and then add the sugar? On this particular occasion, I broke up the shredded wheat, because, that's just how you eat it. He flipped! "WHY ARE YOU SERVING ME THIS SHIT!" This paired with a barrage of other questions that had no correct answer. He then threw it at me. We were in the den. There were sliding glass doors between the den and the dining room. The milk landed between the doors and bled down the glass. The shredded wheat landed in the shag carpet of the dining room. "CLEAN IT UP! CLEAN IT UP! CLEAN IT UP!" My ears rang from his piercing scream. The chant is as clear today as it was then. For the next week, I was cleaning shredded wheat from the carpet, milk from the sliding glass doors, and I even spotted milk drippings on the window screens behind him. During one weekend lunch time while in the middle of some onerous "fun family project," my mother accidentally made my sandwich with mayonnaise. I hate mayonnaise. I have never liked it. I walked to the counter to smother the sandwhich with mustard to cover the taste. That was too much for him. My punishment: "You'll put mustard on every food you eat for the next 30 days." Peas with mustard. Cereal with mustard. Yes. I did eat mustard on everything at the lunch period. Preparing meals where just as obnoxious. While making breakfast, the butter ran out. I had to get out a cold stick of butter from the refrigerator. It wouldn't soften fast enough when the toast was ready, so the toast tore. (We couldn't soften the butter in the microwave. It just wasn't allowed.) My step-father demanded more of me. "GET US MORE TOAST. NOW! GET IT. AND IT BETTER BE GOOD. IT BETTER NOT BE TORN. DON'T DESTROY MY TOAST OR YOU'LL BE EATING ROTTEN TOAST ALL DAY." My patients are no different. A few weeks ago, I had to evaluate a patient who struck a food service worker for putting bacon on his tray. "It's not heart healthy! I have a heart healthy diet! She is supposed to put on turkey slices! Not bacon!" He was arrested...all over a slice of bacon. Another of my gems threatened the staff worker because she wouldn't give him prune juice at lunch. Prune juice isn't served at lunch. She just didn't have it. The manager offered him prunes. He threw them back at him and threatened to kill the staff members...over prune juice. These patterns of behavior are consisted with the temper tantrums of children. Child molesters not only identify with children on an emotional level, but on an behavioral level as well. To give in to these types of behaviors is to give power to those individuals: to the children and to the pedophiles. Limits need to be set and choices need to be offered. What I said in my opening is setting limits. "If you are going to behave in a way that is unacceptable, you are going to be held accountable." For the children in adult bodies, swift consequences; support to the service workers; immediate removal from the dining hall, charges pressed if necessary, and shutting down the line when incidents occur. For our boys, they will be given democratic options: "This is the offering. You have a democratic right not to like the meal in front of you, but this is what is offered. You may eat it, or you may leave it. But we appreciate your presence at the table. Rudeness at our table is not acceptable. You have a choice: sit at the table and join the family, or leave the table and read a book on manners. It is your choice." My husband and I will need to role play these lines with one another. We need practice. Lot's of practice. I don't want my child in my hospital.