You know what my favorite time of day is? Dinner time. Yup. I love feeling defeated so much that I figure, hey, why not make my own mess to clean, then willingly hand my creation over to a bunch of uncoordinated master manipulators who will undoubtably criticize my efforts, grind it into the rug, and walk away after mind ninja-ing me to believe that i need to try harder. I love yelling, mopping spills and getting up out of my chair 12 times before I even get to take my first bite of cold food. Dinner time. What’s not to love?
According to the experts, if you want your children to grow up to be successful, well rounded and emotionally adjusted adults, you need to sit down every night around a table and share a family style meal.
If these standards hold true, I’ll be lucky if my kids don’t end up incarcerated by the 9th grade. Passerbys will drive by my dirty faced box car children with their tiny napsacks on sticks under the bridge and say,
“Wait, isn’t that the Jones kids?”
“Why, yes, rumor has it they didn’t eat family style.”
“What a shame. They could have been somebody. “
But, realistically, show me a parent who can do this! Please! Then give me their number. I have some questions, such as. ..
“What sort of threats do you use?”
“Are food funnels too ‘last century torture’?”
“What’s your take on fear mongering?”
I have a 9 year old who won’t eat anything that grows from the earth. She vomited the moment watermelon danced across her palette.
WATERMELON.
I have a 5 year old who will eat anything, but only as long as he’s breakdancing on the table or doing a level 12 yoga move called the “unpredictable sociopath” in his chair.
And, then there’s the baby who’s discovered gravity and tray bouncing.
Now don’t get me wrong, the husband is a big help with all this, but somewhow amidst the chaos he manages to push all food off of his own plate onto the surrounding areas. We didn’t even have rice.
Now that I’ve set the scene, tell me this, experts. You now expect me to give these tiny terrorists free reign over portions, a ladel to dish up their own soup and unassisted condiment control all while asking open ended questions meant to engage?!
I think not, good sir. The only words I’ll have time to utter will be under my breath and explicit.
This is one of those “give yourself grace, mama” moments. (A phrase that covers all manner of sins). Today, however, as I look down at the Instapot meal that will undoubtedly fail, (partially because I have no idea how to operate this thing) I will raise my 3rd glass of wine in solidarity with each of you as we cheers the Trader Joes freezer section.
Give yourself grace, mama, and next time, just give em cereal.
Chaos + Creation 