The Family Rules

Every family has its own rules. I’m sure there are families with refined rules about required behavior aboard the yacht and how to treat the servants. Our first rule is:

Rule #1 : No Death

We find this simple phrase covers an astonishing assortment of situations. It applies to almost any gathering where children are likely to fight, (that would be every gathering, in these cases it is most aptly translated as, “I will tolerate a modicum of rough-housing but you will be in trouble if I have to get out the booboo bunny.” On those rare occasions when the children go out to play (gasp!) without rapt supervision, it means, “Don’t be an idiot and you’ll be fine.” And always, in every case, it serves to keep one's perspective on things.

Over the last weekend we began to formulate another maxim, but we haven’t decided yet if it’s a full-grown rule, or just an observation. In any case, it states:

At least one member of the family must be unhappy at any given time.

Here we were, in Hershey, Pennsylvania, “The Sweetest Place on Earth,” the epicenter of caloric ecstasy, a place so deeply ingrained in the culture of the company for which it is named that the street lights look like Kisses ( ½ wrapped, ½ unwrapped) and many transactions are concluded with a gift of a candy bar, like the exchange of wampum.

We had visited the zoo (small, yet perfectly edited), gorged at Chocolate World (rides for the kids, you, and your credit cards), and availed ourselves of many of the considerable amenities of Hershey Lodge (indoor pool! game room! Room service! Video games on demand!) and were seated at the nicest of the house restaurants in front of four lovely filets mignon. When what to my wondering eye should appear…but a sulk on my son’s face.

Here, in the middle of kid heaven, he decided to dwell on a decision we had made regarding his video obsession. It seems he’d gotten it into his head that I had promised him a Gameboy at the age of eight. Of course, being fond of his conversation, even when it does dwell on obscure fictional battle tactics, we have said no. Repeatedly. Still, he was unshaken in his belief that we once had promised and were now reneging. The ultimate parental sin.

So here I was, poised over a $40 steak, staring into a puckery, pouty face that also had, incidently, a $40 steak in front of it. I tell you, it was more than my famously tolerant heart could take. I beckoned to him to follow me out of the restaurant and demanded to know the source of his abject misery.

“Sis says you promised me a Gameboy when I was eight, and I am eight and I don’t have one.” (sulk, sulk, sulk).
“No, Son, I promised you would never get a Gameboy before you were eight.”
Long pause. Frown. Serious review of the terminology. (Hello? Harvard Law? How young do you take ‘em? I swear to you, Bill Clinton’s “That depends on what your definition of ‘is’ is” speech would make perfect sense to our son.)

Finally. A clearing of the brow.
“Oh. That’s different.”
“Yes. It is.”
“Hmph.”
“Now, we’re having a very nice meal in there, and I’m not going to look at that frown through the whole dinner. If you can’t buck up and be cheerful, you and I will take our steaks to the room to eat and skip dessert.”
Ah. Dessert. The magic threat.

So at least for the next half hour, we were all four happy.
Until the girl-child got sleepy and cranky and restored the balance.
Sigh.


(Oh, Rule # 2? When someone offers you money, take it.)