Leftovers and Tacos, Priceless!
     It was a rainy, dreary Sunday afternoon and I was looking forward to a quiet, lazy afternoon to finish my much put off homework. As I gathered my heavy book bag, pens and resources, the phone startled me with its loud ring. My son’s familiar voice was on the other end. “Mom,” he said, “Can my friend Taylor and I come over and get something to eat?” How could I say no to a tiny little voice I’d been hearing for years? “Sure,” I replied, “but you boys will have to be quiet. I’m doing homework.” They agreed that they’d only be there long enough to clean out my leftover ridden refrigerator. It wasn’t long before thundering steps on the outside steps heralded their noisy arrival. Before I could reach the insistent ring of the doorbell they were playing with, in bounded three boys, all full of the energy only that much youth, contained for too long, can exude. Varying in sizes, these boys have been part of my son’s life since their early, adventurous days in grade school. They had all grown up together, sharing the good and bad times with each other. They were all MY boys. I shook my head at them, scolding them gently to get their dirty, scruffy sneakers off my just cleaned floor. Padding across my carpet, they made a beeline for the refrigerator, which if it could have, would have trembled with fright at the sight of these three half grown men charging toward it, mouths watering to see its contents. I watched, amazed, as my fridge was systematically emptied of everything they considered edible. While they were putting plates together to warm up, the phone interrupted my astonishment at their appetites. This time I heard the sound of yet another voice from my past. Through the crackling line came the sound of my youngest daughter saying, “Hey, Mom, can we come make tacos at your house?” I cautiously asked who “we” were and she named off two of her own grade school friends and the boyfriend who had become part of our ever extending family. Unable to concentrate on anything but the disaster area my kitchen was quickly becoming, I said, “Why not,” resolving myself to a noisy afternoon with my “family.”

     Soon after hanging up, came noises of slamming car doors, laughter and music coming from the car outside containing the new arrivals. Out came several bags of groceries, their plastic bags sagging from the yet to be created meal. Cheerful voices filled the hallway as the group clomped up the stairs, flung open the front door and said, “We’re starving, where’s the kitchen!” My little, already full kitchen exploded to life as all the kids began to chatter at once. Soon the smell of spicy taco meat, gurgling on the stove, filled the air. The lettuce snapped crisply as one girl chatted with one of the boys about how long it had been since they all “hung out.” How grown up they all sounded! After all the fixin’s had been chopped, diced and grated, the giggling teenagers sat down to their feast. As all the kids sat there around my kitchen table, my mind flashed back to younger days. In my mind’s eye, I could see all these same “kids” only years earlier. I vividly recalled them sitting at that same table when their now grown bodies were much smaller. I remembered the dirty, little bare feet swinging over the floor they couldn’t quite reach. I remembered all the bloodied, scraped knees I had bandaged, the heated arguments I had settled and the hurt feelings I had soothed among this group. I was stuck with such contentment at the sight of all these people I had grown up with. My heart skipped happily at the memories these noisy, grown up “babies” had brought me over the years. Suddenly the idea of a quiet, lazy afternoon was gone, and I listened, smiling contentedly, to the happy chatter of the children around me. Funny how a single phone call can change your whole perspective!

 

 

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