On the Menu

“Call me pls. Bentley won’t eat the food.”

Claire noticed the text on her phone as she breezed into the kitchen to get more cheese. The cheese plate seemed to be particularly popular tonight.  She groaned inwardly. This was her first soiree since the twins had been born. It was the sort of thing that she and Mike used to do all the time before kids.  A carefully selected guest list, an ambitious menu, great music--it was their specialty.  But then the boys arrived and their lives changed.  Their friends self-segregated into those that had kids and “got it” and those who didn’t, and found it odd to end the evening by 10.  Mike had taken on more of the cooking responsibilities but his tastes ran more towards convenience than inventiveness.  And music? Who had time to listen to music?

But the boys were on solid food, finally, which meant for the first time Claire felt she could take on the challenge of hosting an evening like she did in the old days.  Like most modern American women she had felt the pressure to breastfeed as long as possible, and she was proud to say she had done so.  She didn’t even like to pump if she could avoid it.  And with twins her commitment had been especially challenging, but she’d gone six solid months and now the boys were transitioning to baby food. She had triumphed, at least by her own considerably high standards.

Unfortunately, her mother didn’t see things the same way.  Her mother felt that the boys were transitioning too soon, and never let an opportunity pass to point it out.

Sure enough, there was another three texts when she walked by the phone to grab more wine.

“I told u too soon.”

“Did u at least send a bottle?”

“Call me. Bentley not eating. I’m not even gonna try Barkley.”

Claire felt the rage rising in her.  Couldn’t her mother just watch the children for one night without trying to guilt her for her matronly failings.  Couldn’t she appreciate the efforts Claire put into being a good mother?  Hell, she made her own baby food most of the time. Her mother had never done that.  It had been nothing but Gerber for Claire and her brothers, filled with all those preservatives and chemicals.  Granted, she had broken down and bought some strained pwA today because she just didn’t have time to put together a new batch of homemade baby food. But it was EarthFirst, all organic and no artificial anything. But she got credit for nothing.

As Claire passed into the kitchen for more ice she saw three missed calls.   She considered continuing to ignore her mother’s attempts to reach her.  But then she knew Mother would try Mike’s phone and Mike had never met a call he’d screen.  She’d end up talking to her one way or the other.

She unplugged the phone, and put a finger in her ear to muffle the noise of the party.  Mother picked up on the first ring.

“Clarie! Did you send anything besides this baby food?  Did you pump?”

“No, mother,” Claire sighed.

“You’ve got to pump, dearie.  The children aren’t ready to be completely free of the breast.”

“They aren’t completely free of the breast, mother!  I still nurse them to put them down for naps and bedtime!” Claire’s voice rose against her will.

“There’s no need to shout, Claire,” her mother reprimanded. “The boys do not like this food you sent them. I know you’re trying, but they just don’t like it.”

“They;re babies mother!  They don’t know what they like. You  just have to keep trying.”

“I have been trying, Claire.  But I’m not at all sure this food is appropriate for children.”

“Oh my gosh! Mom, stop it!  The food is fine!”

“No, I don’t think it is.  It has a very strong smell.  They’re too young for food like that.”

“It’s strained peas, Mother,” Claire hissed.  “Baby food often seems a little off-putting to adults.”

“This is not strained peas.”

“Yes it is!”  Julie ducked her head into the kitchen and gave Claire a quizzical look.  Claire mouthed an apology and spun into the pantry where she could fight with her mother without disturbing her guests.  “Okay, I failed to be the perfect mother and I bought some baby food okay! It’s not home-made, it’s strained peas from--”

“Babe!” Mike had come into the kitchen in wake of an upwelling of laughter over some joke she hadn’t heard and he was chuckling too.

Claire peered out of the pantry.

“What are you doing in there?” he asked, his face flushed and pleasant.

“It’s Mother,” Claire replied as if that explained everything.  “What do you need?”

“What’s up with the pesto?”

“What do you mean ‘what’s up with the pesto’?”

“It just doesn’t taste like much.  Did you leave out the garlic or something?”

“No. . . I did not leave out the garlic. I’m already having to put up with crap from Mother and you criticizing my pesto doesn’t help.”

“Language, dearie,” Claire’s mother chimed in over the phone.”

“Well, nobody’s eating it, which is a good thing.  There was only the one little container in the fridge.”

With that Mike ambled back to the party.

And suddenly it all made sense.

“Mother, I’m coming over with the food,” Claire said quietly, defeated.

“Breast is best, Clarie. Might as well feed them properly while you’re here.”

“Yes, mother.”

Claire hung up, dropped the phone into her purse, went out into the great room and picked up the appetizer plate with barely touched pesto at the center.

“I gotta go feed the kids,” she announced, and walked out the door without another word.