My two teenage sons and I follow our growling stomachs to the local fast-food restaurant.  Lunch trays in hand, we maneuver our cokes and spicy-chicken sandwiches through the crowd and settle at a table.  Andy takes a bite of lunch, then pauses, a look of utter incredulity on his face. His blue eyes begin to twinkle.

&quo t;What‘s up?" I ask.

He points, and I follow his finger to a table across the way.  Discreetly, I turn hoping to get a better look.  Over by the window sits two cute kids - a brother, in the throes of terrible two‘s, and his "should know better, but doesn’t care" pre-school sister. They're having the time of their lives.

Their mom is in line ordering lunch and, from time to time, she looks their way content that all is well. Obviously, we have a better view then she does. Brother has the saltshaker; sister has the pepper.  With finesse they work together creating a modern work of art.  Shake, shake, swoosh, swoosh.  It’s amazing how much one of those containers holds.

We mothers understand these things; one sitting nearby catches my eye, and we share a smile knowing certain judgment is coming.  Having "been there, done that" I almost feel sorry for the unsuspecting mom.  It’s just a matter of time . . .

Hunger calls my name, and I bow to the task at hand.  There is no need for me to look; Andy is giving a blow-by-blow account, "Auuugh! No!! They’re licking the table with their tongues." 

Silence.

&quo t;I don’t believe it! She’s pouring it on his head."

Mom inches her way toward the cashier, money in hand.  The color of their table has changed from subtle blah, to patchwork black and white.  Tension mounts as Mother picks up her tray, and stops for straws and napkins.

We&r squo;re nearly breathless with wonder.  How will she respond?  Will she blow?  Will she cry?  Will she turn red, and huff out the door?  Will she speak between clenched teeth, as mothers are prone to do under pressure?  Thoroughly captured by the unfolding drama, we strain to hear her words.

Mother rounds the corner, and quietly says, "You are in trouble." Then she does the one thing we hadn’t thought of. She does nothing.  Absolutely nothing.  No angry words, no tears, no huffing out the door.  She doesn’t even speak between clenched teeth.  Sitting her tray on a nearby table, she motions for her miniature ruffians to join her.  They leave the patchwork for a new subtle, blah table and begin to eat.

I&rs quo;m not the only mom sitting mouth agape.  I’m thinking, "Any mother worth her salt (and pepper) would surely say something.  I don’t know, like maybe, ‘You made the mess; let's get it cleaned up!’ "

Even if she decides to extend unmerited favor to her erring offspring, surely she will do something.  I don’t know, like maybe clean up it herself.  Only in my dreams.  They devour their lunch, oblivious to the stir they have created.

I look at her.

I look at the table.

I look at my sons, and they look back at me.

Ben questions, "Mom, are you going to clean it up?"

&quo t;No, I‘m not, but I’m tempted." I’m also tempted to tsk, tsk, and throw a look or two while I wipe away the masterpiece.  I am tempted to declare something, I don’t know like, "Honey, let me help you be a better mother."

In the end I opt to put my lips together and say nothing, but I feel sad.  One day mom is going to lament, "I just don’t understand my kids." She’s going to wonder why her little angels have no respect for personal property, or social skills, or her. I understand why. Maybe someone will gently say, "Do you think maybe it goes back to the early years when you missed the teachable moments?"

I recognize this is a teachable moment for me and mine. The drama we have just witnessed speaks volumes.  Just to be sure, I deliver a lesson of my own in Personal Responsibility 101.  "Train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he won’t depart from it," which being interpreted means, "Nip it the bud."
Ronda Knuth