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I experimented next with a more dramatic approach. It involved actually putting some mush in my mouth and attempting to swallow it. Invariably it would cause waves of nausea and gagging. The noise would command my mother's attention, and as she turned to look at me I would meet her gaze with pitiful misty eyes. Without a moment's hesitation she would point her finger at me and growl through clenched teeth, "Don't you throw that up! I'll give you some more if you do!"
Finally, I discovered a way to dispose of mush that mother never did get wise to until I confessed years later. Breakfast was almost always served at the kitchen bar, located conveniently close to our scrap paper collection. As usual, I would wait for everyone else to finish and leave, then while Mother had her back turned or left the kitchen on a timely errand, I would hastily put the mush in a piece of paper, roll it up, and then slide it into my sock. Later, I would guiltlessly dispose of it.
The years have gone by, and contrary to my Mother's predictions, I have grown into a healthy adult. As a parent there are certain things that I have solemnly sworn I would never do: fixing wheat mush tops the list. Only once have I broken that vow, at which time I was pregnant, and therefore not responsible for my act.
© 1988, Denna Lynn Floyd Coburn
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