Fun with Grandma and Buffer Boy

Kids are wonderful and can serve many functions.  When you are down and need a hug, your kid will probably oblige.  As long as they are under the age of 7 and no one is watching and you give them a cookie.   When they are little, they can reach things that roll under the furniture like a cocktail glass or a baby brother.  When they are older, they can reach things on the high-up shelves like the spare bottle of Stoli, or a baby brother’s piggy bank.   I bet you’re all thinking I was also going to list tax deduction as a useful purpose, but the amount the government deems an appropriate deduction and the amount it cost me to feed my boys are many, many zeroes apart.

Yessirree, kids are very functional and can serve many purposes.  Hang in there, I’ll bring this around in a second.   

Recently I had dinner with my sister and my mother.  I don’t remember what my sister and I ordered, but I clearly recall what my mother had.  She ordered a house salad and fried oysters.  Her order triggered another one of those memories that my friends think are far more amusing than I do. It also reminded me of another purpose a child can serve.   That would be buffer between parent and grandparent. (See?  That didn’t take long, did it?)

You see, my mother and I love each other dearly, but we don’t always see eye to eye, and occasionally the conversation, which usually starts with just one seemingly innocent comment, rapidly spirals (or escalates, depending on whether you are a participant or an onlooker)  into a screaming, plate throwing, crying fiasco the likes of which Springer wishes he could book.  Anyhoo, several years ago my mother had done her homework, knew the answers to the three questions and the little troll who lives under the bridge allowed her access to the island for several days.  During her visit, she wanted to go to my favorite little watering hole, the Thirsty Whale, for some of their scrumptious fried clams.  Since the Whale tends to frown on customers screaming, plate throwing and crying during the lunch rush, I thought it might be smart to bring my firstborn son to diffuse tension betwixt his mother and mine.  I figured if he was there, we would be well-behaved and I would not be embarrassed in front of the staff who so cherishes me they  bestowed a Native American name upon me -- ‘Woman who helps make our payroll’. 

We instantly had a situation when the server informed us that fried clams were temporarily off the menu.  She did suggest a very popular alternative – fried oysters.  This development triggered a negotiation process that would make Joe Bornstein cry Uncle (get it? – the spokesman is that guy from that 60’s show…oh never mind, if I have to explain it, it’s not so clever) It went something like this:

Mom: I’ve never had them fried, what if I don’t like them? 

Me:  Well, Christopher likes them, he’ll eat them and we’ll order you something else.

Mom: But then you’ll be eating and I’ll just be watching.  That’s not fun for me.

Me: Why don’t you get the fried haddock sandwich, that is always good. 

Mom: No, I want fried clams.  I had my heart set on them.   

Me:  Oh for pete’s sake, just ride the ragged edge and try the oysters.   

Mom: (Heavy Sigh) I just don’t know. 

And just when I thought she couldn’t annoy any more beejeezus out of me, she paused, looked over the menu RIGHT AT her grandson and said (please note this is 100% true.  I could not and would not be able to make this up)

Mom:  Oh, I dunno if I should. Oysters make your grandmother horny.

  

The room started to spin.  I rose from the table, mumbled something about having to go to the ladies room, and wobbled toward the end of the bar, where the bartender was waiting and biting her lip.  I pointed to the bottle of good tequlia and asked her to pour a shot.  She quickly obliged, sensing my urgency.  What she didn’t understand was that the shot would be held on reserve for Darrell when he came in for his afternoon nip (even in the face of pending doom, I can be thoughtful of others).  I fully intended to down the rest of the bottle.  I then heard, through the pounding in my ears, my son’s voice announcing loudly  ‘That is the grossest thing I have ever heard.’  So much for not making a scene. 
I summoned my maternal instinct, realized I had abandoned buffer boy in his darkest hour and wobbled back to the table. After our server composed herself a little, I ordered lunch for my son, who, after that one outburst had been rendered speechless, myself and my mother -- because I did not want her to speak ever, ever again.

The rest of lunch was uneventful, unless you count the waves of laughter that would roll down the bar every time another local would come in and hear the story. 

I was actually surprised that for the rest of Mother’s visit, Christopher did join us, and would politely hold any and all doors open for most of our group.  Notice I did not say ‘all of our group’.  After a couple days Mom said ‘I must be losing weight.  I don’t think Christopher sees me right behind him.  He keeps closing the door right in my face.’  Oh, he knew, Mom, he knew.