FAMILY MATTERS
Facing the truth when opening fridge
By Michael DeMattos
I remember when I first knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that my daughter was in fact mine.
I had stayed home from work with a fever, chills and a runny nose that required not one but two boxes of tissues. I had been lying on the sofa for nearly three hours, watching infomercials and old Super Bowl highlights, when I decided to make myself a cup of chamomile tea.
I slowly stood, wrapping my blanket around my shoulders, and walked to the kitchen, opened the fridge and found the box of tea on the top shelf.
I reached into the box for the familiar tea bag.
What I pulled out was a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
In an instant I knew there could be only one culprit — well, maybe two. It could have been either my then 2-year-old daughter or me.
Being the super sleuth that I am, I quickly ruled myself out, knowing that I had not recently eaten a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
The evidence pointed to my daughter. There were a few bites taken out of the center of the sandwich, leaving a battered crust surrounding mangled white bread.
There were numerous ways the sandwich could have found its way into my tea box, but I quickly reduced the number of theories to two.
The first theory was that my daughter, not liking the crust portion of the sandwich, and, more important, feeling unwilling to deal with Mom's endless litany over how "the crust is the best part," decided to stuff the sandwich corpse someplace where it would never be found. The tea box, sitting on the top shelf and used only in times of physical distress, seemed like the perfect hiding place.
The second theory was that my daughter, while eating her sandwich, decided to check out what else might be good to munch on. She opened the fridge and, lo and behold, found something more to her liking. She quickly ditched the sandwich and made off with the new delicacy. But it was not that simple. Displaying a cunning belying her 24 months, she knew that she would have to "relocate" the PB&J or get in trouble.
Either way, she was smart, sneaky and, best of all, mischievous — just like me.
Life is a complex gig. It has been said that no two of us are alike and that our lives, like fingerprints, are unique to us. Each of us has a story to tell that can't be found anywhere else but within, at the very root of who we are.
Still, it seems to me that this is a half truth. Our stories may be different in the details, but we are more alike than we realize. This is probably truer in a family than anywhere else.
After some careful consideration, I vetoed the tea and carefully stuffed the sandwich back into the tea box and returned it to the top shelf of the fridge. Why did I put it back? I'm not sure. I guess we are cut from the same skein after all.
But I no longer needed the tea. I was feeling better thanks to my daughter and a well-placed peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
Michael C. DeMattos has a master's degree in social work. He is a family therapist, educator, trainer, storyteller and angler, and lives in Kane'ohe with his wife and 5-year-old daughter. Write to him at: Family Matters, Island Life, The Advertiser, P.O. Box 3110, Honolulu, HI 96802; e-mail ohana@honoluluadvertiser.com or fax 535-8170.
