Workshop Write

To my granddaughter, with love

You have reached a time in your life when everyone wants to give you advice. Not that we haven't before. But when a new life has come into the world, for some reason it releases a "sharing compulsion" in the rest of us--whether we've had children or not. We have a vested interest in this littlest of Stewarts, and all of us have just the bit of wisdom that will make you the perfect parent.

Not possible.

So let me tell you a story that will help you sort out all the bits of information that come flying your direction. Bear with me, because you know how old women love to tell tales.

It was the first time I tried to feed my inlaws. Now when I say inlaws, and you think of two people, you are short by about 50. Well, maybe 23.

I came from a large family myself, and my mother was fond of feeding crowds, so the dinner itself was not something that had me quaking in my Mason shoes. I was feeling pretty confident, actually. I had made up most of the side dishes ahead of time and had them in the freezer. My plan was mapped out with plenty of time padded in for emergencies. Exactly on time, the food was hot, the table was set--both for the adults and the children, whose table was usually neglected--they were both absolutely gorgeous, if I do say so myself. Everyone was seated and beaming and so ready to eat. And I was so ready to feed them all that I'm sure I had to be brought down a notch or two just to be human.

The Stewarts were well suited to the job and they didn't even intend to be. I served what I would serve my large Italian family. Only these folks were German.

Pasta with red sauce is not a good mix with children and a beautiful table. What was too spicy for one was too bland for another. There were requests for more of what there was none of. Large heaping plates of the most delectible items were left untouched. There were requests for things to be heated up; there were people blowing on things to cool them down. If I heard "What is this" once, I heard it a thousand times. I started with sliding down in my seat, and ended in the kitchen with tears sliding down my face.

That's when Great Grandpa Herman slipped in for a glass of water and pressed what looked like a fortune cookie slip of paper in my hand that said:

A single dish cannot satisfy the tastes of a hundred people.

He kissed me on my salty cheek and whispered, "Well done!" before he toddled back into the dining room.

I thought about it while I washed up a few dishes. He was right. I'd done my best. It's just impossible to please everyone. And no one was going away hungry. I was after the unattainable--perfection. When I let go of that ideal, then the meal was all-in-all less of a disaster. I knew I had figured it out when I walked back into the dining room, where everyone was smiling, and talking and laughing. It was good. Not perfect. But good.

How does this apply to you now? Honey, you can't use everyone's advice. Not when someone says you should feed the baby on demand and another says you have to put him on a strict schedule. You can't do both! In the end, some well-meaning giver of advice will be unhappy because you're not doing her best thing. But the unhappy person should never be you or your infant. So take all the advice you get, weigh it, and do what *you* think is best--go with your gut! And as long as that little one is smiling, "Well done!"