What's Mine is Yours

Somewhere in the fine print of the marriage and family contract are the words, "What's mine is yours." Never have these been truer than when dealing with a 15-year-old and food.

This morning my son drags into the kitchen at 6:25 for breakfast as I am setting Jeff's plate and mine on the table. "What would you like today," I inquire thinking he'll want cereal, which has been his choice since Monday. (Mind you, I usually give him a plate of whatever we are eating - eggs, bacon or sausage, toast, hash browns with cheese, etc. But this week he announced he was "tired" of all that and just wanted a bowl of cereal.) He eyes the plates and says, "I'll have some of that."

This is only a problem because he has already eaten his share of "some of that" and wants mine. See, occasionally when Toaster Strudel is on sale we buy a box, which contains six pastries - allowing us two each. When I pulled the box from the freezer this morning, only three remained. I gave Jeff two and put one on my plate - the dish my son is eyeing hungrily in the early morning sunshine. When I point out to him he has already eaten half the box, he protests – "But I only ate two of them. Steven was here when I had a snack, so I had to offer him one, and he took it."

Now, as a mom I am happy that my son remembered it is impolite to eat in front of people without offering to share. However, as a hungry-for-warm-pastry-before-I-go-to-work woman, I am unhappy that he has given half of my share away rather than half of his. Thus, the tug-of-war in my brain starts as the ragamuffin gives me his best starving puppy dog look. "O.K.," I relent. "You can have my Toaster Strudel. What else do you want to go with it?"

"Those hash browns look good," he answers. Of course they do because they are the last of the leftover hash brown casserole from Sunday brunch. As I scoop half of them onto a plate with the pastry, he adds that some of the sausage (also hot on my plate) would be good, too. By the time we are finished, half a helping of hash browns is left on my plate and the rest of my breakfast is sitting prettily in front of the boy. At this point he even takes my fork since I am forced to walk back to the fridge (next to the silverware drawer) to get more sausage and put a piece of bread in the toaster. I feel as if I have been had, especially when Jeff shows up and comments on how good breakfast looks and the ragamuffin nods in agreement while chewing.

This isn't the only instance of the boy absconding with my food. Last week I bought a box of Raisin Bran Crunch while he picked out some Fruity Pebbles. Within a day, my cereal box was half empty and his wasn't even open. "Gee, this is really good, Mom," he commented when I asked about it. "I didn't know it would be better than Fruity Pebbles." Apparently it was because I only ate one small bowl and Jeff didn't get any. Another box this week was also disappearing (Monday to Wednesday's cereal for breakfast), until his covetous eyes lit on the toaster pastry this morning.

Families should come with warning labels about how kids take over your life. They wear you out physically, tax you mentally, stomp on you emotionally, and then eat your favorite foods in front of you as a final taunt. I guess I shouldn't complain, though, because the boy gives me food for thought in return.