73: Scrambled Eggs
Written September 7, 2023
I love breakfast. It’s my favorite meal of the day. Ever since I was a kid, weekends have always started with a good hearty breakfast. Biscuits, pancakes, omelets, bacon. Something warm, filling and delicious.
On Saturday, Kushal woke up and asked if he could make breakfast to earn some tasks. We have a chart on our fridge to keep track of chores and challenges. It is basically a piece of paper with blank lines. Once he completes 25 tasks he gets 25 dollars. Tasks can be anything that we agree on in advance. This particular morning he asked to make breakfast for two and in return earn two tasks.
On the surface, it sounded good. Imagine that classic scene of lying in a comfy bed with down pillows. The cute kids bring you a perfectly cooked breakfast on a wooden tray with a fresh glass of hand-squeezed orange juice and a single red rose in a small vase. Top it off with a handmade card that says “I love you, Mom.” In reality, it never goes like that. Kid cooking is terrible. What you actually get is a ridiculous amount of dishes, raw ingredients splattered everywhere, a lot of whiny questions, a giant mess that you will have to clean up and a questionable meal that could possibly give you Salmonella poisoning.
I hesitated and asked what he was going to make. He really only knows how to make one decent thing – egg and cheese quesadillas. “I’ll put ham in yours because I know you like it that way,” he said in a sweet and convincing voice. “Okay,” I agreed “but you have to do this all by yourself. I’m not helping. I’m going to sit and read my book.” He agreed.
I sat at the kitchen counter drinking coffee and pretending to read my book. Meanwhile, he proceeded to make a loud ruckus, clanging pots and pans together like it was a marching band. It started off okay, but you could see his frustration grow as time went on. He missed the bowl while cracking one of the eggs and had to clean it up. He dropped butter on the floor. He successfully scrambled and cooked the eggs, but ran into a problem compiling the ingredients into the quesadilla. He stuffed his so full that he couldn’t fold it. That meant he could only cook one at a time in the pan. Mine didn’t fit. He was losing patience with this task.
“Put your hands out!” he barked in frustration. I obliged. Then it happened.
Into my bare hands, he slapped a big slimy chunk of scrambled eggs, followed by a cold wet piece of ham on top. “There. Breakfast served." he retorted. Then, he turned to the stove to continue cooking his quesadilla. I stared at him in silent shock, egg goop dripping through my fingertips. Then I lost it.
There was a lot of yelling. I told him he was gross, rude and selfish. That he wasn’t getting any tasks and that he had to clean up the giant mess. He left the kitchen in tears, went to his room and slammed the door.
I dumped my breakfast in the garbage, thoroughly washed my hands, turned off the stove, and removed the now-burning quesadilla that was smoldering in the pan. Then I went to Kushal’s room to talk.
“I am so selfish,” he cried. “I just wanted the tasks so badly.” We talked it through. Eventually, all was settled. So I thought.
The next morning I made pancakes and we ate in peace. Again, I sat at the kitchen counter drinking my coffee and reading my book Mistakes Were Made (but not by me) by Carol Travis and Elliot Aronson. I picked up exactly where I had left off the previous morning and read these lines:
Contemptuous exchanges like this one are devastating because they destroy the one thing that self-justification is designed to protect: our feelings of self-worth, of being loved, of being a good and respected person. Contempt is the final revelation to a partner that “I don’t value the ‘who’ that you are.”
I paused. It was as if the book had watched our kitchen fiasco the morning before, like a CIA spy full of important intelligence. I immediately turned to Kushal. “Hey, I need to talk with you about something important” I said, walked over to where he was, and sat on the floor next to him. He put down his LEGOs and looked up at me in curiosity.
“You know how yesterday morning I said you are selfish?” I asked. “Yeah, I remember” he responded dully. “Well, that’s not right. I didn’t use the right words." I continued, “You ARE NOT a selfish person. You just did something that was selfish. There’s a difference.” He looked at me confused. I continued, “Sometimes we do things that don’t align with who we are. You are not selfish. You are a good and caring person who I love to pieces. Yesterday, you just screwed up. We all screw up. It doesn’t mean you are a bad or selfish person. I’m sorry I made you feel that way."
He looked back at me with a slight smile on his face. “Next time, I’m going to try and use better words,” I told him. “And next time, you try and make a different choice, okay?” I asked. “Yeah, okay” He responded. Then I left him to play with his LEGOs.
I realized these micro-moments are like a petri dish for growing shame. How often are we told by others, or ourselves, that we are bad or indecent people because of small actions? Men are inconsiderate for leaving the toilet seat up. Kids are disgusting because their rooms smell. Moms are dimwitted because they misplace the car keys.
The constant bombardment of these messages is fuel for self-justification. Our egos trick us into believing one of two options. First, they are wrong because the observation is not in alignment with who we are, or second, they are right. That IS who we are. Both are lies.
I do not want Kushal to believe he is a selfish human being over some stupid scrambled eggs. I also don’t want his ego to turn me into the enemy in order to protect itself. To break the shame cycle for everyone, we have to learn to separate behavior and worth.
I am convinced that this small act could be a heroic feat that changes everything. I’m grateful for the breakfast that Kushal made. While it didn’t feed my stomach, it definitely filled my soul.
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So… You DON’T like hand eggs and ham?
This is such a good, honest story of how a morning can go wrong and how a morning can go right. The power of an adult, an authority figure, a mother, plopping on the floor next to her child to tell them, I screwed up too… This doesn’t define us, but we can do better. Those are the words, that is the posture and the practice that will save our relationships and our world. <3
Love this. I will continue to reflect on doing something, versus being something and at what point you become the thing that you were just doing. Admittedly, my mind went darker - doing something racist versus being a racist. It is so easy to conflate. (Also, I really like the Chores and Challenges list structure.)