Have you ever kicked over an anthill and watched the results? Did you see ants dash out of the hole with valuables? Did you take note how they run in all directions, bumping into one another, all in a mad scurry? Well, setting my dinner table can make a comparable sight, on occasion.
While Wife prepared the evening meal, #8 giggled to himself in his swing, for he knows full well that he, and he alone could stop anyone’s chance for dinner. The children were not allowed in the kitchen while momma’s at work, so #7 and #6 whine at the carpet line; #6 because he is hungry and is going to die, #7 because he’s not allowed in the kitchen. The rest of the children seem to be in either one of two places; out of the way, or directly under Wife’s feet. That is why no children are allowed in the kitchen.
When dinner is ready, Wife called for help to set the table. That was when my household resembled an anthill as there was a mad rush to the kitchen. #1 climbed up on the counter to hand down plates to #3. #2 was looking in a bottom cupboard because she was sure she had seen some plastic plates somewhere down there. #4 and #5 were fighting over who will gather the forks. But when #3 started grabbing forks, #4 and #5 made a wild dash to grab as many forks as possible before elf faced #3 had a chance to react. Now that the kitchen restrictions were lifted, #6 and #7 ran into it, and generally made a nuisance of themselves. Observing the commotion, the five month old made his presence known, and made all of us who could hear, regret the ability.
In the din of #8, the children slid onto their benches. As the plates were passed around, we realized that we had too many forks and not enough plates. A correction had to be made. #1 and #2 trotted to the kitchen for the missing plates. #4 headed back with the excess forks along with #6. Once everyone was back, I noticed #6 has traded in his fork for a spoon. Oh well, please pass the plates.
When the plates were full, and the commotion had died down, the meal could start. Then, #5 shouted out, “Oh no, dad you fowgot!”
“Forgot what?” I asked with potatos half way to my mouth.
“You fowgot pwayers!” he exclaimed.
And so I had. Leave it to the four year old to remind me of what is really important.