And somehow in the scheme of things, that chair, with its microscopic irregularity, has imprinted on 4-year-old Matthew's mind. As sure as a duckling is of its mother, our son is of his chair.
Easygoing Christie, at two, couldn't care less where she sits at lunch time, as long as there's food in front of her. But, Matt is devastated if his little sister happens to land on the chipped-leg chair.
"Christie's got my chair!" His wailing could rival the noon whistle.
"It's okay, Matt Matt," we try to soothe his utter sense of violation. "She's not going to keep it. But couldn't she just sit there this one time, since she's already dipped into her soup?"
"No way!" he cries. "It's my stool!" The little guy is not to be consoled. His father and I exchange knowing looks. There is nothing to do but switch stools and soup bowls. Dave lifts Matthew and Christie, while I move the stools.
The dishes are harder. Matt's brimming bowl slops Campbell's Bean with Bacon on his place mat, and because no one can decide who drank out of which glass--one of them has breadcrumbs on the rim--both must be exchanged for new.
Finally, with Matthew settled on his self-proclaimed throne, we sit down hoping to salvage some warmth from our rapidly cooling meal. With the clinking of spoons, a welcome respite from the previous moment's commotion, I scan my children's faces. Jennifer, Stacee, Mike, Christie. Each child is intent upon the business of noisy slurping--each child, except Matthew.
"For Heaven's sake! What's the matter now? Why aren't you eating, Little Guy?"
"Christie," he raises his head to hiccough. "Christie has my spoon!"
How does he know?
My eyes dart from the little boy's mournful eyes to the steel gray utensil held firmly in his younger sister's dimpled hand. Sure enough, a microscopic fleck of rust dots the tip of the handle piece.
