The other night I made a vegetarian quiche for dinner. Emma was not impressed. She told me that when she’s a mom, she won’t make disgusting food for her children. Braeden, ever my champion, said, “I can’t believe you’re being so mean to Mom.” I told him not to worry. Someday she’d have children of her own and get her due.
Emma insisted, “No, I’ll remember this. I won’t make them things they don’t like.”
When I was a little girl, there was a family in my ward, the Petersons. They had two daughters, Laura and Lynnette (maybe Lynnette? I can’t remember for sure). I do remember how small and delicate and petite they were. They were the same ages as my oversized brothers. I recall telling Marianne that when I had children, they were going to be little and cute like the Petersons. Not like our enormous brothers.
There’s a whole lot of DNA (from both parents) my children would have had to fight to be petite. It didn’t happen.
Failed plans are discouraging. Sometimes it’s not our fault (like when a child isn’t all that excited about their main Christmas present) and sometimes it is our fault (like when we abandon our repentant-I-will-floss-every-day plan a week after the dentist visit).
I think you have to go ahead and dream though. Go ahead and make plans. Ideals. I’m glad Emma’s picturing a rosy view of her children always liking everything she cooks. Maybe it’s the idealistic view that keeps us going.
Then of course, there are the times when plans DO work out with unwelcome results. My sister has tried doggedly to teach her biracial children to be bilingual. The other day she and her husband Edgar were going to watch an Anne Frank movie. Five-year old Liliana wanted to watch. Olivia told Edgar in Spanish that it wasn’t appropriate for her. Liliana who is at times a reluctant Spanish speaker, understood every word and was only more interested in the movie. Why isn’t it OK for me to watch???