Tuesday, November 20

esclavage

monday evening. interior. kitchen scene.

our lovely heroine, kylie, and her young charge, mr.-in-a-bad-mood, are preparing (i.e. reheating) the proscribed menu ceremoniously attached to the refrigerator with an alphabet magnet.

soupe: carotte et cerfeuil (which i had to look up. chervil ).

due to other non-dinner related circumstances, he didn't want to eat it.

"fine," i say, "but even if you don't want to eat it, it's what's on the menu tonight, but i'm not going to force feed you."
(for one thing, that would just make a mess. and then i'd have to clean it up anyway...)

he, in an angry huff, grabs the phone and calls the higher authorities. (i.e. maman.), and stomps off into the dining room. i don't know what he's calling for. i didn't say he HAD to eat it.

he talks to her for several heated minutes, then struts back into the kitchen with a triumphant smile (worthy, i'm sure, of napoléon), as if he's just pulled something over on me, and thrusts the phone into my hand.

she says that he's obviously not going to eat the soup, although she had been hoping to get some vegetables into the kids, balanced diet and all, but just to go ahead and make the other stuff on the list (which is what i was going to do anyway, so hey, no skin off my nose.)

in the meantime, nathan is smirking at me, while sitting on the kitchen table, which he knows he's not to do.

"nathan, please get off the table", i say, still on the phone with his mum.

"no!" he surly responds.

"nathan, get off the table, please."

"no!"

"let me speak to him, please." says the mum.

"your mother wants to speak to you," i say, as i hand him the phone surpressing a smirk (that's for YOU, k. ha!).

nathan listens a moment, then guiltily slides off the table into a chair, and begins crying into the phone.

"but kylie is always telling us what to DO!" he exclaims, starting to cry, complete with crocodile tears. "she doesn't have the RIGHT to give us orders!" he proclaims.

"WE ARE NOT SLAVES!!!"

this kid is NINE, people. nine.
for heavens sake, i asked him to get off the table, not build the pyramids.

(incidentally, after the phone call, i said that *i* was going to have the soup then, and neither he or his brother could have any. ::snickers::
worked like a charm.)

6 comments:

The Bold Soul said...

way to psych the little brats out, girl! And actually MY retort to his "she doesn't have the right to give us orders" would be: "your parents PAY me to do this, so yes, I do have the right" :smirk:

joy suzanne said...

mwa ha ha ha. You are his svengali. I think next time you should just raise an eyebrow and twist your moustaches. Freak him right out.

joy suzanne said...

mwa ha ha ha. You are his svengali. I think next time you should just raise an eyebrow and twist your moustaches. Freak him right out.

Leah said...

Triumph! Yesssss. Way to go!

PS-What are crocodile tears? Are you in fact nanny to teeny tiny French crocodile children?

The Late Bloomer said...

Ha ha ha -- great episode, Kylie! Sounds to me like you handled it perfectly... I don't know if I would have been patient enough to make it through the whining phone call.

jchevais said...

Slaves indeed. Tell him MY kids have to do their own dishes. OR ELSE!