Last Friday night: Adam wants Mexican food. Elena wants Japanese food. An epic sibling meltdown ensues. What will bring it to an end? Patience? Soothing words? Generosity? Compromise? An epic parental meltdown? All of the above? Something I haven’t mentioned yet? Place your bets.
When a Friday dinner goes awry it carries an especially deflating sting for me and my wife. Two working parents, we have a few rules about dinnertime. We try to make it so that at least one of us is home to have dinner with the children most nights. Both of us try to commit to Friday night. We’re Jewish so there may be a religious influence at play, though our rituals are secular. Come home. Eat together (in or out) as a family. Occasionally invite friends to join us. Relax.
On my way home, I got the text to meet them at a local Japanese restaurant, and when I arrived Adam, who is 8, was miserable. I could see the damp of his tears and he made only a few utterances that were so seething I could barely make them out.
Apparently my wife made the final decision that it would be a Mexican night, but when they got there the wait was so long that Adam, despite his disappointment, suggested Japanese instead. But once surrounded by tables of sushi instead of guacamole his frustration got the best of him—and unfortunately for all of us, and especially him, it lasted for much of the meal.
We tried complimenting him for his generosity in offering to go Japanese. Instead of criticizing him for his ill behavior we told him that we wanted him to be happy and enjoy his meal, and we were committed to eating Mexican soon. We reminded him that the line had been too long. We told him that we appreciated his frustration, but that we also expected him to behave. We told him enough already and he wasn’t permitted to rudely ruin the meal for everyone else. He mumbled and winced, mumbled and winced. The food helped, until he reminded himself that it wasn’t Mexican.
On way back from a joint bathroom visit, I suggested that we sit at the sushi bar and watch the chefs work their magic. He refused. I sat down anyway. He sat down. I think we both were impressed. I got up to return to our table. He chose to stay, rapt and relaxing.
So if you had your money on “something I haven’t mentioned yet” you were right. In the end, Friday’s savior was The Sushi Man.
But I’m also going to give some credit to the parents. We stewed a bit, but we never escalated the drama by losing it ourselves (this time).
In my life, an 8-year-old’s meltdown (and ditto for a 12-year-old’s) isn’t any more rational or pretty than a 2-year-old’s. And I still don’t have the answer. It still largely seems to be a question of when they’re going to feel calm, relaxed, and safe enough to come out of it, and leave the hurt behind. And in the meantime, the best we can do for them (and ourselves) is stay calm.
For much of the meal he seemed a little peeved that everyone else was enjoying their food. On another level, he kept on slipping up by having moments of enjoyment himself. Perhaps he was more ready to leave it all behind him by the time he sat down at the sushi counter.
So I think those of you who voted for patience and soothing words are right too.
Eric Messinger is Editor of New York Family. He can be reached at emessinger@manhattanmedia.com
