The Little Red Hen

Dinner. Lovely pork loin, quinoa, asparagus.

"So, I need to write a parenting column. Who's got an idea?" I ask, stepping on Bowser's paw, eliciting a yelp of indignation.

"A fashion column," my daughter says excitedly. This is the first real interest she's shown in my work, so of course I am eager to encourage her. Also, I love clothes and tend to think that fashion is always a good idea.

"Well," I hesitate, "it's a parenting column. I'm not sure how to tie fashion in," I add, lamely.

My husband snorts, takes a bite of pork. "You could write about getting your husband to cook every night."

"That's not fair!" I cry out. "I cooked at least three times this week, maybe four," I add, chewing thoughtfully. Well, maybe twice. Do leftovers count?

It's a good thing our house doesn't operate like the little red hen's pad. Otherwise, we'd all starve — except for my husband.

As most parents have done, I used to read bedtime stories to my children. When it was late or I was feeling lazy, instead of pulling out a book I would tell them by heart the old folk tale of The Little Red Hen.

The hen grew the wheat and made a cake with it (I realize the original story says bread, but give me a break, cake is much better), all without the help of her lazy animal friends. Of course, her friends are most anxious, delighted, in fact, to help the hen eat the cake; she declines their help, and therein lies a classic tale of the work ethic's value.

Earlier this afternoon, my youngest, The Duck, helped my husband shovel out the last of the icy pile in the driveway. When asked, the eldest two said, "yeah, right, Dad," and walked away; only The Duck dug in, enthusiastic and filled with good cheer. 

Dad rewarded him with his very own box of Girl Scout cookies. Samoas.

At dinner, The Duck finished earliest and asked for the cookies. The others, The Girl and The Teenager, watched in dismay as he crunched away, happily enjoying the coconutty fruits of his labor.

Feeling guilty, I said, "well, I suppose it would have been nice if the hen shared the cake instead of keeping it all to herself."

"No way," my husband said. "That hen was right on the money."

We all sat and watched The Duck eat his cookies. Then, quietly, slowly, he extracted 2 cookies from their stiff plastic case and handed The Girl and The Teenager a cookie each, his palms grubby from half-melted chocolate.

"Thanks, Ducky," they said, nibbling.

Hopefully my youngest didn't just learn that it's okay to be pressured into giving up something he worked hard for to those who haven't earned it. I hope he did learn that it's okay to stand up for yourself, to reap what you sow. 

Mostly, I hope he continues to help around the house. I have a lot of cookies and the kitchen floor's a mess.