A Tale of Three Hotdogs

My son loves hotdogs.  Really loves hotdogs.  Could eat them three meals a day, seven days a week if I'd let him.  (I don't let him!)  I didn't realize hotdogs could become a determiner of inner distress, however, until last week at Camp. 

It was suppertime on Thursday.  Grammy, Pop, the kids, and I had spent a lovely couple of hours fishing on the lake.  The kids had talked to their father on the phone.  Ranita had hooked his first large-mouth bass.  Both Ranita and Chinchita drove the boat (with varying degrees of assistance from Pop).  It had been a great day. 

We were having an easy supper of hotdogs.  Ranita wanted ketchup and mustard on his.  No problem.  I gave him the properly-prepared dog.  As hotdogs will, his rolled around, mussing the condiments.  He started to cry and scream as if someone were sticking hot pokers under his nails. 

Grammy moved in to correct the condiments.  I stopped her and told him he could have it adjusted if he stopped throwing the temper tantrum.  Long story short, the temper tantrum continued and he went to bed having had a glass of milk for supper.  No hotdog. 

Once things calmed down, I talked with my angel-son and reminded him that asking Mommy nicely to fix the condiments would be the appropriate approach in the future.  "Okay, Mommy," he said snuggling against me.  "I'll remember that."  (He can be so darned sweet!) 

Grammy accepted the tantrum pretty easily.  She remembers her own episodes with her son growing up.  Pop was shell-shocked.  He did not remember those fits! 

The next afternoon, Ranita again requested hotdogs.  I warned him in advance that there were to be no fits over condiments.  He agreed.  Alas, his hotdog was again imperfect.  He asked me to fix it, reminding me of our conversation the day before.  I added more ketchup and mustard.  The hotdog again rolled, and I said enough was enough with the condiments.  He again threw a tantrum, and he again ended up in bed.  It was quite the scene. 

Pop kept saying, "I can't believe this is all over a hotdog!"

I looked at him and said, "It's not the hotdog.  I don't know what it is, but it's not the hotdog.  He's never done this over a hotdog before." 

When I again talked to Ranita after things calmed down, he mentioned missing Daddy Day.  He had talked to his dad on the phone, but he wanted to see him.  I let him know he'd have Daddy Day when we got back, but I sort of glossed over it.

It wasn't until LATE that night when Grammy and I were girl-talking that it hit me.  Missing Daddy Days was actually the cause of the hotdog hissy fits.  The poor kid knows his days of the week, but he doesn't yet understand the concept of geographical distance. 

He knew he had already missed two Daddy Days.  We went to church Sunday, but he didn't see Daddy afterward.  He talked to Daddy on the phone Thursday, but he didn't see Daddy. 

Like me, he'd never been to Camp without Daddy.  Unlike me, he didn't understand that it was too far to drive from RI to ME for Daddy Day.  He thought that missing Daddy Days in Maine meant he'd never get to have a Daddy Day again. 

To top it all off, the last time he had hotdogs was at the PawSox game with Daddy the week before.

Boy did I feel like a jerk.  Here the poor kid was missing his Dad, and his mom was punishing him for it.  I determined to talk to him first thing in the morning. 

When I brought the subject up with Ranita, it was clear I had (eventually!) hit the nail on the head.  He was feeling rejected by his dad.  I tried explaining distance . . . and told him his dad couldn't come up, not that he didn't want to. 

A couple days later, we went to Bar Harbor.  For lunch, we stopped at a lobster/bbq place.  As I read off the children's menu, Ranita requested a hotdog.  Pop visibly blanched.  "Not another hotdog!" he said. 

"It'll be okay," I replied.  "We solved the hotdog problem."  The food came, and my son gobbled the hotdog down without batting an eye.  Later he ate his sister's as well . . . with no condiments at all. 

Grammy and Pop were astounded.  Having been through a couple of these psychological dramas in the past six months, I was less surprised.  I have, however, learned some valuable lessons from this. 

First, if someone you know well suddenly and "inexplicably" begins fixating on something or behaving out of character, don't ignore it.  Something big is most likely triggering the behavior, and the sooner it's flushed out, the better. 

Second, never underestimate a child's ability to internalize pain and angst . . . or their ability to bounce back once the cause is identified and resolved. 

And last of all, with men of any age, the way to their heart really is through their stomach!