My Plate

         As I push on the brake for the upcoming light, I notice the construction sign outside the decades-old family restaurant. I read the words, “Primary Health Coming Soon” and am immediately bathed in warm feelings of vindication.  I am glad it is being torn down. The haunting memory I have every time I drive by, reminding me of my inadequacies and supposed failure as a mother, will soon be erased.

            Six years ago my husband received a job transfer, and my little family had just moved back to Boise from Illinois. For a few months he was required to travel back and forth between the work centers, which left the majority of the unpacking and parenting to yours truly. Also, with the imminent delivery of baby number four on the way, I was exhausted, sick, and had zero motivation to accomplish anything in life besides keeping my three darling sons alive. I had a lot on my plate. 

            My oldest son was striving to earn his Bobcat award in cub scouts, which began an hour after school let out, and I usually had to scurry to get him fed. On this particular day my dramatic hormonal brain couldn’t fathom the notion of travelling home to prepare a dinner I didn’t want to make nor eat, all while being surrounded by boxes begging to be unpacked. I instead decided upon dining at a restaurant I had frequented my whole life, Raedean’s. I felt relief at the thought. I was eager to sit and rest my weary body while soaking up the joys my children had to offer, grateful for the opportunity to pay someone else to serve me.  I needed a break.

 The meal was as soothing as I dreamed it would be. My three year old and one year old wiggled and giggled as they created toddler masterpieces on their paper menus.  My oldest son reviewed his scout book with me while I leaned back and soaked in the moment. My, how I loved my children.

            All of a sudden a disgusted finger was in my face, waving frantically. The appendage was attached to an elderly woman who appeared to be wearing an ill fitted gray wig. She was screaming out a torrent of passionate words and it took my brain a moment to comprehend that the vile speech storming from her mouth was directed at me. Once my ears remembered to listen this is what they heard, “You and your children ruined my entire meal! And not just mine. Everyone’s in the restaurant! You are a horrible mother, allowing your family to be so disruptive! In my day people took their children out of the room when they were being naughty. It’s not your fault though. I blame your actions on your parents. They raised you with this low class behavior. You and your children are exactly the reason why I am not voting in favor of the upcoming school bond. Why should I support someone raising juvenile delinquents?” Anytime I tried to get a word in edgewise she would thrust her powerful finger further toward my stunned face and declare, “Now you listen to me!” My cub scout loyally defended my honor throughout her sermon by stating repetitively, “It’s not true. Not true.”

            My endurance of her criticisms was my new eternity. She went on, and on, and on, demonizing me, my ancestry, and my posterity. My deepest fears and insecurities, which I had rarely shared with anyone, had now been validated to the whole world, or at least the entire population of Raedean’s. Maybe I really was failing at motherhood.

When the woman completed her tirade, and turned toward the exit, the only words I could muster were, “Thank you for your kind words.” Then I laid my head on the table and sobbed loud, ugly tears, embarrassed and paralyzed.  I had never been the target of such unkindness and harsh judgment. I was ashamed for not having jumped to the defense of my sweet babies.

As I was trying to compose myself, an angel of a woman, another diner, appeared at my side and said, “You didn’t bother us at all honey.” She then looked around the table, searching out the faces of my boys one by one, truly seeing them. “You have three boys. What a blessing. They are wonderful and you are doing a good job. Let me pay for your meal. Don’t worry about what she said.” She immediately took our bill and paid the amount due. I was a speechless, hiccupping, tears-streaming mess. I gathered my wounded family together and guided them to the car.

Once on the road, my children wanted me to turn our minivan around and give the fuming woman a piece of my mind, but I declined.  It made me sick to judge her plate in return. I didn’t know what was on it. This was the valuable lesson she had taught me during those moments on her superior soap box. Maybe she was sick, sad, exhausted, and all she had wanted was a peaceful meal at Raedean’s. But then her greatly anticipated moment had been rudely interrupted by the excited chatter of little children. Whatever my un-expert opinion may have been regarding her and her circumstances, I was determined to treat her plate with care.

Now, six years later, while gazing at the soon to be demolition site, I wonder how the angel woman, who paid for my meal, is doing. Is she blessing more plates? I want to be like her.  I worry about the hurtful elderly woman. Where will she eat now? I hope she finds a new diner to love, though I wish it be far from me. I earnestly pray she’s handling others’ plates with more empathy. I pray for myself to do the same. Then, I grab for my phone and snap a picture, capturing the memory I thought I wanted to forget.