It started Friday evening around 8:30 pm. As Zach was getting into bed, he announced, that he needed his special day big green stuffed frog. “What frog are you talking about”, I asked naively. “My special-day big green stuffed frog. I really miss him and I need him”, he answered, and the tears started flowing. “Well, Zachy, we will look for him in the morning”, I replied, still with no clue which stuffed animal he was talking about. But, the tantrum rolled on, gathering steam with every moment. He was panicked. He was frantic. He was obsessed. “No, we have to find him now!”, he screamed. My attempts to calm the storm were not well received. I reminded him that he has at least 78 stuffed animals, 4 of which are frogs, wouldn’t any of those do for the night. I even offered up Abby’s frog named “Jumps”, which caused Abby to say: “No, that’s mine!”, nearly inciting a domestic riot.
“Absolutely not” was his clear response. He would not rest until his special day big green stuffed frog was found.
So we formed a small search party, and spent several minutes looking for the frog. I asked all of the important questions: “What does he look like?, “Where did you last see him?” Did you take him outside?” Is he under your bed?” He offered very little help (how could he, really, with all the crying and screaming), but, finally, he agreed to give up the search and catch some shut eye.
Fast forward to 6:30 am Saturday morning. Zach was shaking me, demanding that we find his special day big green stuffed frog. He picked up with the tantrum right where he left off a mere 10 hours ago. He was once again, panicked, frantic and obsessed.
In my family, this is called a “pork chop moment.” Let me explain: When I was about 10, I came home from school one day to find my typically calm, cool and collected mother to be panicked, frantic, and obsessed. Apparently, a leftover pork chop had gone missing from the refrigerator. My brother, sister, step-dad, and I were individually and collectively interrogated by my mother. She demanded to know who ate the pork chop. Since none of us confessed to the crime, the investigation went on for days. We were forced to ask our friends. We were encouraged to ask our neighbors. My mother was determined in her efforts to find the culprit, but no suspect was ever identified.
My sister and I have laughed for years about this incident. I occasionally get a distressed phone call from her, while she is in the midst of a “pork chop moment”. A “pork chop moment” is when you become irrationally obsessed with finding a lost something or other. Like the time, I became obsessed with finding Abby’s “Tuesday” onesie, or more recently the Quickbooks CD. You can see it, you can smell it, you can almost taste it, you know it was just right “there”, but you can’t put your finger on it. And, you can’t let it go!
The obvious question is: who cares who ate the pork chop, or where Abby’s “Tuesday” onesie is, or where special day big green stuffed frog is, for that matter?” Of course, no one should really care, or at least care enough to become completely obsessed with finding it. This is not life and death stuff, right?
I would like to think that on the day that the pork chop went missing, my mom was just hungry for a leftover pork chop, and angry that someone had beat her to her snack. But, I think it is something deeper than that. If it was a simple case of hunger, the frustration would have subsided more quickly, probably as soon as she found a different scrumptious morsel in the refrigerator to feast upon. She clearly had plenty of other options in the food department.
My take on it is that in an unpredictable and chaotic world, knowing the precise location of each and every item in the refrigerator helped my mom feel secure and comfortable. If you can’t be Mistress of the Universe (aka God), at least you can be Mistress of the Refrigerator. And, I think having a “pork chop moment” every now and then allowed my usually calm, cool and collected mom an outlet for some frustration . . .a reason to sweat over something meaningless and insignificant so that she could respond more rationally to the really important stuff.
So, back to Zach. We still haven’t found his “special day big green stuffed frog.” And, as I see him sleeping with “blue dog” tonight I realize that he doesn’t really need this silly stuffed animal. I have a feeling that his tantrum last night was more about controlling his environment . . .a little boy feels just a bit safer when the precise location of “special day big green stuffed frog” is known. But, I can’t help but hope for him, that as he grows he will feel safe and secure whether or not he knows the exact contents of the refrigerator or the precise whereabouts of all his insignificant belongings, and that he is not destined for a lifetime of “pork chop moments.”
“Absolutely not” was his clear response. He would not rest until his special day big green stuffed frog was found.
So we formed a small search party, and spent several minutes looking for the frog. I asked all of the important questions: “What does he look like?, “Where did you last see him?” Did you take him outside?” Is he under your bed?” He offered very little help (how could he, really, with all the crying and screaming), but, finally, he agreed to give up the search and catch some shut eye.
Fast forward to 6:30 am Saturday morning. Zach was shaking me, demanding that we find his special day big green stuffed frog. He picked up with the tantrum right where he left off a mere 10 hours ago. He was once again, panicked, frantic and obsessed.
In my family, this is called a “pork chop moment.” Let me explain: When I was about 10, I came home from school one day to find my typically calm, cool and collected mother to be panicked, frantic, and obsessed. Apparently, a leftover pork chop had gone missing from the refrigerator. My brother, sister, step-dad, and I were individually and collectively interrogated by my mother. She demanded to know who ate the pork chop. Since none of us confessed to the crime, the investigation went on for days. We were forced to ask our friends. We were encouraged to ask our neighbors. My mother was determined in her efforts to find the culprit, but no suspect was ever identified.
My sister and I have laughed for years about this incident. I occasionally get a distressed phone call from her, while she is in the midst of a “pork chop moment”. A “pork chop moment” is when you become irrationally obsessed with finding a lost something or other. Like the time, I became obsessed with finding Abby’s “Tuesday” onesie, or more recently the Quickbooks CD. You can see it, you can smell it, you can almost taste it, you know it was just right “there”, but you can’t put your finger on it. And, you can’t let it go!
The obvious question is: who cares who ate the pork chop, or where Abby’s “Tuesday” onesie is, or where special day big green stuffed frog is, for that matter?” Of course, no one should really care, or at least care enough to become completely obsessed with finding it. This is not life and death stuff, right?
I would like to think that on the day that the pork chop went missing, my mom was just hungry for a leftover pork chop, and angry that someone had beat her to her snack. But, I think it is something deeper than that. If it was a simple case of hunger, the frustration would have subsided more quickly, probably as soon as she found a different scrumptious morsel in the refrigerator to feast upon. She clearly had plenty of other options in the food department.
My take on it is that in an unpredictable and chaotic world, knowing the precise location of each and every item in the refrigerator helped my mom feel secure and comfortable. If you can’t be Mistress of the Universe (aka God), at least you can be Mistress of the Refrigerator. And, I think having a “pork chop moment” every now and then allowed my usually calm, cool and collected mom an outlet for some frustration . . .a reason to sweat over something meaningless and insignificant so that she could respond more rationally to the really important stuff.
So, back to Zach. We still haven’t found his “special day big green stuffed frog.” And, as I see him sleeping with “blue dog” tonight I realize that he doesn’t really need this silly stuffed animal. I have a feeling that his tantrum last night was more about controlling his environment . . .a little boy feels just a bit safer when the precise location of “special day big green stuffed frog” is known. But, I can’t help but hope for him, that as he grows he will feel safe and secure whether or not he knows the exact contents of the refrigerator or the precise whereabouts of all his insignificant belongings, and that he is not destined for a lifetime of “pork chop moments.”
