I used to love to cook. I remember chomping at the bit to get into the kitchen, eager to play and whip up new and exciting dishes. I still enjoy spending time in the kitchen, but what was once a beloved and relaxing activity has become a chore. In between writing reports, fielding conference calls, finishing assorted projects, managing my social media responsibilities and entertaining Hamlet, I still manage to make dinner. Every. Single. Night.
Yesterday was especially busy because I decided to surprise Robby (and Timmy) with a trip to Jumping Jimmy's after school. (In addition to wanting to see the boys have fun I must admit to some ulterior motives. I've discovered that taking the boys to a bounce house tires them out, dramatically simplifying our bedtime routines.) Before I left the house to pick up Robby from school, I prepared dinner. I prepped chicken and potatoes so that all I had to do was put it in the oven when we came home. Granted that roasted chicken and potatoes isn't gourmet, but it is a solid meal.
After spending an hour jumping and playing, we came home, and I immediately put the chicken into the oven. Because I was tired and wanted to be comfortable, I changed out of my clothes and into my yellow nightgown. (I realize that it was only 4:30, but I had already been up for 12 hours at this point and was beginning to anticipate going to bed.) Ninety minutes later the house smelled yummy and dinner was ready. Sitting down for dinner, I saw Scott turn up his nose when he saw the chicken and potatoes.
With all seriousness, he asked me if the potatoes were crunchy. I explained that they were freshly dug potatoes from the farm that had been roasted with the chicken. He put down his fork and proclaimed "I have decided that I am only going to eat crunchy foods from now until my surgery." (He is having his wisdom teeth removed next Thursday which, if you have been reading this blog for any length of time, you realize this is quite the traumatic event for him.)
Seeing that his Daddy was refusing the non-crunchy potatoes, Robby followed suit. Both crunch-seeking eaters picked at some chicken and refused to touch the potatoes. I could feel my blood pressure rising each time they pushed the food around their plates. Finally I had enough! I put the rest of the potatoes and chicken on a plate and directed Scott to take it to Mr. Bill. I dismissed all of his attempts to defend his crunch-seeking ways and proceeded to clean the dishes.
As I was loading the dishwasher, my ire was rising. Seeing Scott across the street laughing on Mr. Bill's porch was my tipping point. Still holding a dirty red spoon, I went outside onto our deck and screamed across the street. "Hey Your Highness, make sure you apologize for the potatoes not being crunchy enough."
And then I saw myself: I was standing outside, furiously squawking across the street while wearing a yellow nightgown at 5:30 in the afternoon. Yikes. When did fighting over non-crunchy potatoes become my reality? I took a deep breath, tried to muster as much dignity as possible and went back inside.
I decided to forgo arguing about dinner. I figured that the boys would find something to eat when they were hungry. I closed down the kitchen and proceeded with Timmy's bedtime routine. I have no intention of rehashing the great potato fight, but I must admit that I'm looking forward to whatever Scott and Robby decide to make for family dinners for the remainder of the week. This Momom is on strike.
- I am a below knee amputee. More importantly, I am also Mommy to two boys, a very active 10 year old (Robby) and an mischievous toddler (Timmy). I have learned that being a parent with a disability can create some unusual and sometimes humorous situations. This blogger is available for hire! Let's talk and learn how a blog can expand your business.