I hate to cook. There. I said it. That’s right. These moms are all like, “I just love getting into the kitchen to create something new and nutritious for my family. It’s such a stress reliever.” Really? I don’t get it. Sure, I love eating food. Serve me up a palate-pleasing plate of deliciousness and my taste buds will thank you. But make me work for that dinner over a hot stove with dirty dishes accumulating by the second and a lovely new grease stain splattered across my top to match the grease-covered, snotty-nosed, whiny child hanging from my leg and you might as well throw me in a torture chamber.
And then comes my favorite part of the evening where my preschooler hits full-on meltdown mode proclaiming, “I hate dinner! I don’t wanna eat it!” beginning the hour long battle of the wills between parent and child. Meanwhile the toddler breakdances on top of the table, while slinging her own peas across the room and slathering my food through her hair. And let’s not mention the fact that even on a good day when the children graciously accept their mealtime food, I still can’t enjoy my meal. “Mommy, you forgot my dwink. Mommy, I want more. Mommy, I don’t wike peas. Can you pick them out for me? Mommy, I want a bite of yours. Mommy, can I just have your pwate? Here. We can twade.”
Stares down at smooshed peas.
You would think that after the eating process is complete, the night would finally go smoothly, but who am I kidding? I’m left with eyes gaping wide at what might as well be the tornado aftermath in a scene of the movie Twister. All sorts of gooey, crunchy, slimy textures cover the vicinity of the kitchen, not to mention the children themselves. So then begins the arduous task of bath time and kitchen clean-up duty. Usually bath time doesn’t present too many obstacles other than the fact that I become an unwilling participant in the game of who can get the wettest. Somehow I end up winning.
I then step back into the kitchen danger zone now fully drenched in soapy bath water. As I evaluate my surroundings, trying to decide where I should begin my cleaning endeavors, I eye my youngest shoveling old apple sauce that’s been lying dormant on the floor since lunchtime into her greedy little mouth (no judgy eyes please) and then making her way to the trash can to attempt to devour a handful of raw chicken scraps. As I gag repeatedly, I swoop in and snatch the little munchkin up before any more germs descend down her throat, coating her insides with salmonella. On to bath number two.
When I finally make it back to the kitchen after the kids are in bed, all traces of energy and motivation to clean anything have dissipated. So I stand there staring as though if I glare hard enough at the grime, it will get up and run away on its own. I do what I can to disinfect most of the kitchen, leaving the dishes ‘til morning (seriously . . . stop with those judgy eyes!). Feeling semi-triumphant in all of my soaped up, grease-stained, matted hair glory, I plop down onto the couch only to realize I still haven’t eaten. That is, until I notice the couple of peas mysteriously stuffed in my bra . . .