Feeding the kids

There's something about having leftover biscuits that calls the boys home for lunch, I swear it. It's the same thing that used to make Tristan appear at the door just as pizza was coming out of the oven, or just before it arrived. So yesterday I got home and Tristan was making himself lunch (he's allowed because he's here painting the deck) of biscuits with boneless chicken thighs, cheese, and sliced fresh tomato. It looked pretty darn good, and I thought I'd have one, but then the phone rang and the other two said they were coming for lunch. Oh, well, I knew they'd want the biscuits. Made short work out of them, too.

In my adult life I can't think of any one thing that has brought me more satisfaction, again and again, than feeding my sons. As infants, they were noisy, vigorous nursers, and took everything they wanted from me until they were satisfied, and that was all, each for over a year. As toddlers and youngsters, you couldn't keep food in the kitchen. It was nothing to go through thirty or more pancakes or a couple dozen eggs on a Saturday morning. I cooked, they consumed, and then ran, played, worked it off.

Now they're grown, big, sturdy men, and they can still put away some groceries, but they can also work like no one else, especially when you get them together for a little friendly competition. But the thing that they have that makes me proudest, is not their strength, or their intellect, or their drive, or their handsomeness, but their kindness and compassion. And that now that I am sick, they are making sure that I have everything I need. It's a good man who takes care of his mother.