The Hibachi Union
Almost all adults like kids and most kids like adults. There are a few in both groups that leave the remaining mixture wondering.
Parents are awed by their offspring. As they study the developing marvel, they acquire a complex belief that they created the genius of all geniuses. Move over Einstein.
To them it was earth shattering when from the first day, the little person wrinkled his nose, got red faced, and exhibited total control over his environment. The amazement continued post-toddler era. The small fry may not be able to add or subtract but there is a great deal of pride over his ability to burp loudest and spit farthest. Father's prodigy, no doubt.
Middle school clothing designs tend to threaten a parent-child rift but it levels off during high school after mom joins in the fashion goofiness. Pink hair should only be allowed for poodles, not humans, and blue hair should be restricted to women over ninety.
As the young adult blasts his way through college, the parents continue their journey down Maturity Road. Eventually, child becomes parent. And that is how grandparents are made.
Conversations with a grandparent are one way down a two way street. A grandparent tells you up front he isn't bragging, then starts the big one.
Likely at that precise moment ears deafen and interest is feigned with that "are you kidding?" raised eyebrow plastered across frozen faces. Grandparents really think others are, or should be, intensely interested in words the two year old can say; how spectacular the five year old is that stands on her head to sing the National Anthem; and how many perfect conduct marks the seven year old received. (What do you expect at seven years old, anyway?)
A visit to a Japanese Steakhouse to satisfy sushi craving focuses the parent-child-grandparent cycle. (Somewhat like the tobacco companies, the Japanese failed to mention sushi would become an addiction. And, have you seen the price? A tank of gasoline is cheaper than a few tiny pieces of raw fish. The word is: invest in fish, forget oil.)
A hibachi meal experience is unique. It is similar to attending a family reunion, except with total strangers. Maybe not such a bad idea? There is the polite nod as you pull your chair back far enough to slide into it. Soon the soup arrives followed by the salad. During those courses eyes are glued to the people who brung you. When the sushi arrives there is an air of excitement by some and a look of "I'm gonna gag if you eat that in front of me" by others.
The hibachi family ties deepen as the dinner progresses. Suddenly, out of the darkness there is an explosion of fire which erupts from an onion-ring volcano (quickly converted manually into a choo-choo). Cheers and claps break the ice for the table of nomad diners. When the hopeful Iron Chef tosses a lone grilled shrimp on junior's plate, all spectators align in shear delight and gramps chases the next one with his mouth hinged wide-open.
All who share the hibachi table are expected to appreciate the dazzle of a grandchild. A grandmother can easily set the stage for entrapment by first describing her lineage to the outsiders. Gramps, who sometimes goes too far by including a note about Cousin John who did a little jail time, fills in gaps with details about milestone accomplishments by the grandchild.
One evening a very nice couple found themselves in just such a situation. The man asked the child, "Can you count to ten?" Shyly, the child responded with a soft "Okay" then bowed his head. Silence followed. Grandmother smugly rescued the moment by suggesting the child probably needed to know which language was preferred.
What the? This kid is 4-years old? The man decided to play along but couldn't help himself from an "Oh, yeah, sure!" type of chuckle. He said, "Well, you must be a real smart little chap. Why not try, hum, oh say, Spanish or how about Japanese? Maybe Italian?"
Without missing a beat the child replied, "Uno, dos, tres, cuatro, cinco, seis, siete, ocho, nueve, diez."
The evening wound down in conversational ease. The couple, who had gained a distant relative status, bestowed proper praise. They began gathering their belongings and exchanging farewell wishes. Grandchild, whose timidity had long before been replaced with a familiar boldness which was likely inherited from gramps, shouted out after them, "Sayônara, Sir!" "Ciâo, Ma'am!"
Offspring. Awesome.
© Coninc., TheDownsideUp.Com 2007
Parents are awed by their offspring. As they study the developing marvel, they acquire a complex belief that they created the genius of all geniuses. Move over Einstein.
To them it was earth shattering when from the first day, the little person wrinkled his nose, got red faced, and exhibited total control over his environment. The amazement continued post-toddler era. The small fry may not be able to add or subtract but there is a great deal of pride over his ability to burp loudest and spit farthest. Father's prodigy, no doubt.
Middle school clothing designs tend to threaten a parent-child rift but it levels off during high school after mom joins in the fashion goofiness. Pink hair should only be allowed for poodles, not humans, and blue hair should be restricted to women over ninety.
As the young adult blasts his way through college, the parents continue their journey down Maturity Road. Eventually, child becomes parent. And that is how grandparents are made.
Conversations with a grandparent are one way down a two way street. A grandparent tells you up front he isn't bragging, then starts the big one.
Likely at that precise moment ears deafen and interest is feigned with that "are you kidding?" raised eyebrow plastered across frozen faces. Grandparents really think others are, or should be, intensely interested in words the two year old can say; how spectacular the five year old is that stands on her head to sing the National Anthem; and how many perfect conduct marks the seven year old received. (What do you expect at seven years old, anyway?)
A visit to a Japanese Steakhouse to satisfy sushi craving focuses the parent-child-grandparent cycle. (Somewhat like the tobacco companies, the Japanese failed to mention sushi would become an addiction. And, have you seen the price? A tank of gasoline is cheaper than a few tiny pieces of raw fish. The word is: invest in fish, forget oil.)
A hibachi meal experience is unique. It is similar to attending a family reunion, except with total strangers. Maybe not such a bad idea? There is the polite nod as you pull your chair back far enough to slide into it. Soon the soup arrives followed by the salad. During those courses eyes are glued to the people who brung you. When the sushi arrives there is an air of excitement by some and a look of "I'm gonna gag if you eat that in front of me" by others.
The hibachi family ties deepen as the dinner progresses. Suddenly, out of the darkness there is an explosion of fire which erupts from an onion-ring volcano (quickly converted manually into a choo-choo). Cheers and claps break the ice for the table of nomad diners. When the hopeful Iron Chef tosses a lone grilled shrimp on junior's plate, all spectators align in shear delight and gramps chases the next one with his mouth hinged wide-open.
All who share the hibachi table are expected to appreciate the dazzle of a grandchild. A grandmother can easily set the stage for entrapment by first describing her lineage to the outsiders. Gramps, who sometimes goes too far by including a note about Cousin John who did a little jail time, fills in gaps with details about milestone accomplishments by the grandchild.
One evening a very nice couple found themselves in just such a situation. The man asked the child, "Can you count to ten?" Shyly, the child responded with a soft "Okay" then bowed his head. Silence followed. Grandmother smugly rescued the moment by suggesting the child probably needed to know which language was preferred.
What the? This kid is 4-years old? The man decided to play along but couldn't help himself from an "Oh, yeah, sure!" type of chuckle. He said, "Well, you must be a real smart little chap. Why not try, hum, oh say, Spanish or how about Japanese? Maybe Italian?"
Without missing a beat the child replied, "Uno, dos, tres, cuatro, cinco, seis, siete, ocho, nueve, diez."
The evening wound down in conversational ease. The couple, who had gained a distant relative status, bestowed proper praise. They began gathering their belongings and exchanging farewell wishes. Grandchild, whose timidity had long before been replaced with a familiar boldness which was likely inherited from gramps, shouted out after them, "Sayônara, Sir!" "Ciâo, Ma'am!"
Offspring. Awesome.
© Coninc., TheDownsideUp.Com 2007
Labels: EglPress
posted by KKHC | 7:00 AM
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