Family Council
The first time Dave and I had a real conflict was when I‘d been offered a part-time job at our doctor’s office on Saturdays from 8:00 to 12:00. I was flattered because I hadn’t applied for it but also tempted because I wanted to contribute to our finances. Dave and I had a long painful conversation, he simply didn’t want our eighteen-month-old Serena, to be at the babysitter’s when she was so little. It wasn’t easy but I finally agreed.
When Serena was eleven and Doug was nine we gave them a school clothes budget so they could plan what they wanted to buy carefully. The Bon was their favorite clothing store. Doug found a soft maroon colored sweatshirt which was a cool brand, “Banana Republic” written in white letters on the front. I thought it was too expensive but he insisted and he wore it over and over. It was a good lesson for me on how quality and popularity win.
One summer I took Serena and Doug bean picking to supplement their school clothes money. My hidden agenda was I wanted some spending money of my own. We had a new car and the bean field was just across the river from our house. The field was planted in bush beans, to pick them you have to kneel, squat or pick on your knees which is much more difficult picking than pole beans. Dave was embarrassed but I insisted.
One weekend on our drive to Diamond Lake, Dave and I had a conversation about money. It didn’t make sense to him that I was driving our new car and having the kids earn their school clothes money. I finally agreed not to agree. I’d earned two hundred dollars picking and I saved the money for a long time. Financial security is still an issue for me, but it’s an asset too because I diligently plan our budget and manage both the salon and our personal bookkeeping.
Dave and I planned what we called a family council meeting when we had hard things to talk about. All four of us sat across the living room from each other. The rules were: one person talked at a time, with no interruptions, and the others had to listen respectfully. Then the next person could respond and make their comments. Any subject was fair game. Doug didn’t like to make his bed. I complained daily to Dave and he finally said, “He’s a good kid, does his homework, doesn’t take drugs or drink alcohol, just closes his bedroom door.” It was wise advice: “Don’t point out what’s wrong, focus on what’s right.”
Dave and I wanted Serena and Doug to have their friends come to our house and we wondered why they didn’t. I was on a health food kick, I made carob brownies instead of chocolate, and they tasted different. Serena called them fern leaf brownies. They told us they wanted store-bought cookies, sodas, and chips all junk food that most teenagers like. I took them to the grocery store and they chose what they wanted. Problem solved. They had their friends over several times a week. I had taken a bread-making class and I learned to make delicious whole-grain flour bread, no one complained.
When Serena was a sixth grader, the room mothers met once a month to talk about and plan events. The carnival was the biggest of the year by tradition and the mothers who planned all shopped for groceries cooked and served a spaghetti dinner. When it came to who would be the one to organize everything, I felt everyone was looking at me. I always had a hard time saying “No.” I held out as long as I could but it eventually caved. Where was our family council when I needed it? The room mother in charge of the previous year’s spaghetti dinner had misplaced all the detailed instructions, I wondered why the Italian sixth-grade mom didn’t offer to help. It wasn’t supposed to be hard. The menu was simple: iceberg lettuce with Thousand Island dressing, buttered garlic French bread, spaghetti noodles, and sauce, and there was no need for dessert because there was a cakewalk for a carnival game.
I don’t remember the shopping trip or any of the food preparation but etched in my memory was the long line of people waiting when not enough noodles were cooked and ready to serve. Panic was all I could do. I looked at the line, then to the boiling noodles, and then looked back at the crowd. Noodles, crowd, and noodles, crowd. I don’t remember who helped clean up the kitchen and washed the plates, silverware, and pots and pans. I left emotionally exhausted.
For Sunday dinners I followed Mom’s custom, she prepped a meal before church so she only had the finishing touches before it was ready to be served. Mom, me, and my sisters all pitched in to help get the meal ready to serve. I expected the same thing, but when our family got home from church, Dave and the kids went directly to the living room with the Sunday newspaper with each one selecting pages that they liked. This left me in the kitchen alone thinking how it just didn’t make sense that they didn’t pitch in we all got home at the same time. I wanted them to read my thoughts, but of course they couldn’t. So I fussed and fumed. It didn’t occur to me to join them until someone got hungry got up and took the initiative to get up and finish fixing dinner.
I’ve recently read about how unmet expectations can become resentments. If we guess that someone will read our thoughts or take our hints, it doesn’t work. The article said it shouldn’t be a guessing game, we need to express our requests. If they choose to ignore it that’s their problem. In our case, it might have been a very long time before we ate. I wished I told them that we’d work together to finish making Sunday dinner first, then afterward wash the pots, pans, dishes, and silverware then finally, we’d read the newspaper.
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