grammy and grampy white recall their kids over breakfast

our first child
was good, so good,
resolute and private,
brought us our meals on time,
was able to see through a thrown stone
in mid-arc, and then duck,
without a word of censure
for the thrower,
offering no rebuttal, just
"yes sir, sorry ma’am,"
and then moving on. 
those were the days.
 
and oh,  the second child
certainly knew its place:
behind number one. 
could wait and serve when called upon.
the music was a little
loud at times,
full of beats and hoots,
but mostly it was fun
raising that one,
at least for a while. 

we had to work harder
from the start with
number three,
who was possessed
of the crazy idea
that it was number one.
we had to keep it in line
with stern words,
a lot of slapping,
eventually confining it to a room
which we stripped
of all but the barest rations and
creature comforts.
it settled down,
but not completely.
we blame it for
a lot of what was to come,
but we never admit that —
to them, anyway.

we have to admit
that we never did a great job
of understanding number four
and the spice in its constant whining
in that silly rapid fire voice
about being more than the sum
of its arts.  (sneaky bastard.
did we mention that it,
like two and three, was adopted?
no? we had forgotten, almost.)

we took in number five
because of its inscrutability.
it was full of math, good at
simple tasks and a hell of a cook.
we still get along with them, a little.

there have been others,
now that we think about it —
we’ve never stopped to think
that much about them,
maybe when something of theirs struck our palate,
but oh, we think about them now!

we think it’s number two’s fault
that they’ve all become so strident,
even number one,
pointing fingers back at us when we scold.
we starve most days without them.
their stones make hard trajectories through thick air,
leave blue trails in the ether,
and we can’t see who threw what.
we blame them all.
we are nearly blind now,
confused, delicate,
hungry,
and slipping away.
we blame them all.
 
what’s a child
but an egg to be cracked,
dropped on a skillet, 
brought along to our taste,
then swallowed yolky and hot,
with colors clear and defined?
where did they learn to scramble?
what are we supposed to do with this pile
full of peppers and garlic, hot sauce, who knows what?
how will we know which one’s our favorite
if we can’t tell them apart?

what’s an old couple to do
about getting a bite to eat around here?