Memory of a Brat

I was a brat . . . a spoiled kid with no respect.  As I was watching Beaver Cleaver sit at the table, and stay there until he ate his brussel sprouts, I saw my own childhood self confined to the table until I finished my dinner.  My dad would have finished his dinner, and gone to watch TV.  My mom would be doing the dishes, and I would be poking at my food.  My mom, in a vain effort to get me to finish dinner, would forbid me from leaving the table until my plate was clear.  That was fine with me, as I had a clear view of the TV from where I sat, so I would just turn around and watch TV from the kitchen table.  Eventually, my mom would get tired and want to wash my plate, so I got to leave the kitchen.  I think my mom must have a special place in Heaven for being so patient with such a stubborn little kid.