For years now, I haven’t been able to carry a conversation through without Kende interrupting. No matter how many times I say, “Wait a moment,” or “I can’t talk right now,” or “You need to wait until I’m finished,” it makes no difference. He keeps talking. I try not to listen—to stay focused on what I’m doing or on the person I’m speaking to. Mostly unsuccessfully, despite the impressive multitasking skills I’ve developed over the years.

Because Kende keeps going until I finally give in and pay attention. Louder and louder. More forceful. If words don’t work, he starts pushing me. It’s still better than when he was little—back then he sometimes bit me in moments like these—but even now, his relentless insistence is exhausting. 

By this point, he’s usually worked himself into a state over something extremely important—generally a topic we’ve already discussed about twenty times that very day, and which I personally find mind-numbingly repetitive. It usually goes something like this:
“Mom! Will it rain tomorrow?”
“Kende, I can’t focus on you right now.”
“Mooom! Will it rain tomorrow?”
“Kende, wait a minute!”
“Mom! Mom! Listen! Will it rain tomorrow?”
Realizing that asking for patience is pointless, I usually try to brush him off with a quick answer so I can return to what I was doing.
“Yes, it’ll rain. Now please let me finish my call.”
“Okay. But when will it rain?”
“I don’t know.”
“But when will it rain?”
“In the afternoon, maybe. Please let me finish my call.”
“But when is the afternoon?”
…
I’ve grown so used to the fact that there’s no retraining him, that he talks to me constantly—this way and that—that most of the time I barely even notice anymore. I respond quickly, absentmindedly, and carry on.
But today, I had had enough. Absolutely enough.
The kids had just let the dogs—covered head to toe in mud—into the freshly cleaned house (cleanliness never lasts long here, but surely an afternoon is not too much to ask!). My lower back was killing me; it had locked up days earlier, and I could barely bend down to mop the mess. And then I noticed—almost casually—that the electrician, who had come to install something for a very visible fee, had silently removed a power outlet he didn’t feel like relocating. Without a word. Without asking whether I might still need it.
I was on the phone with him when Kende launched into his daily command:
“Make pancakes!”
“Kende, I’m on the phone.” (I wave frantically: Not NOW!)
“Make pancakes!”
“Kende, wait, I’m on the phone!”
“I WANT PANCAKES!” (getting louder)
“Sir, why didn’t you ask whether I still needed that outlet?” (muting the phone) “Kende, I’m on the phone!”
“Will you make them?”
“Do you think this is fair? You fix one thing and break another and then just leave?”
“I’m not making pancakes!”
“WILL YOUUU?” — and now he starts pushing me
“I don’t mind, but then please come back and put the outlet back!”
“Dogs, outside. Now!”
“Then I’ll make them myself!”
I watch in horror as he starts cracking eggs, which promptly drip down the freshly cleaned kitchen cabinets.
“Kende! Nooo! Wait! I’m talking to the man, then I’ll make pancakes!”
Meanwhile, he wildly pours in the milk, flour exploding into the air like smoke.
By the time I hang up, I’m facing at least half an hour of cleaning—while barely able to bend over. But fine. We’ll make pancakes first, I tell myself.
Then, without thinking, I dip my finger into the batter and taste it.
Inedibly salty. A massive, completely ruined batch.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And that’s when I snap.
“Listen to me, young man! This batter is disgusting, the dogs can have it, and I am NOT making pancakes today—because you couldn’t wait for me to finish my call! You’re sixteen years old now, old enough to understand that when Mom is busy, she’s busy!” I yell at him as if he were five. “From now on, you wait until I finish talking. Do you understand?!?”