"That’s Not My Order!"


“That’s not my order!” Sam informed me with a glare as I handed him his peanut butter sandwich which I had cut in half the same way I always do. What in the world?! Your “order?” Guess we have been hitting fast food way too often if he refers to his meal as his “order.” So, I asked him, “Well, who’s the waitress then?” He pointed at me with a grin, “YOU are!” I had several strong urges:

1. to kick myself for asking that question with such an obvious answer in the first place;
2. to belly laugh;
3. to glare back at him;
4. to wring his neck;
5. to nod in agreement because he had spoken the truth; and
6. to inquire, “Would you like fries with that?”

I opted for a muted (3), that is, a quick glare, followed by a mellow (2), a laugh/guffaw, while privately doing a (1). As much as the use of the word “order” is mighty irritating, I try to remind myself that words don’t have as much meaning to little kids as they do to you and me. Hence no need for a (4). It is safe to say that nuances and “digs,” for lack of a better word, are a bit further down the road for a four-year-old. He is using the word “order” because that is the word he has on file for the meal he wants. It’s up to me to “improve” his vocabulary by laying off the drive-thru for a while. Noted.

As for the actual order itself, that’s a whole other conundrum in itself. He used to love the traditional peanut butter and jelly sandwich, but then summarily decided he didn’t like them anymore. Next he was really into peanut butter sandwiches, but NO jelly. (Jelly apparently no longer met the approval of his fine pre-schooler palate.) The following distinction was that he only likes the sandwich in one BIG piece, absolutely NOT cut in half. (How could I ever have done such a horrible thing to an innocent peanut butter and jelly sandwich?) Since this incident at hand, he has decreed that he doesn’t like peanut butter sandwiches at all, no-how and no-can-do. He does however like peanut butter and crackers. For how long I do not know.

So there I was with the perfectly good peanut butter sandwich, and he refused to eat it. (Plus he didn’t tell me when he placed his “order” that he wanted it in one piece, so it was all news to me.) Man, at least real waitresses get tips! So, people, do I remake the sandwich or not? Before I became a mother, I vowed that I would never give into such silly demands. He could sit there until he got hungry enough to eat his knuckles, happy to settle for the repulsively cut sandwich instead.

Now I’m of a different mindset entirely. What is the big deal after all? To me it’s not much, we can afford to toss out a $.25 sandwich for harmony’s sake. (Thank you for that, God.) More importantly, to him in his preschooler world that is filled with things beyond his control, it is a humungous deal. Now, I wouldn’t cave on the issue every day. (I say that now anyway.) I warned him that next time he needs to be more specific about his meal choice. (Note: use of the word “order” avoided. Good baby step forward, Mom.) I’ve found that power struggles over trivial matters just breed anger, resentment, and not a whole lot more.

Ever the frugal one, I decided to have a peanut butter sandwich (no jelly) sliced down the middle for lunch. And what do you know, we had one right on hand, already made! So Sam and I had a little picnic outside, both eating our respective peanut butter sandwiches for lunch. All in all we were both pretty happy with our orders, I mean, meals. Next time I’ll have to remember to ask him if he wants fries with that — and to tip the waitress.

LibbY

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