Why I don't (usually) cook

This evening, I left work feeling stress. The palpable kind where your heart is beating irregularly and much faster than usual, like it's struggling to keep up with your hectic, demanding schedule. I didn't leave the office at all today, other than to drive to the other office for a meeting, and I scarfed a rather pathetic lunch (trail mix) at my desk while completing what felt like seven tasks at once. So when I finished preparing for the next morning, I grabbed my things and went straight to the gym for some much needed stress relief.

Feeling more balanced and calm post-workout, I left to pick up kids from school, well aware that I had less time to make dinner before they exploded like hangry little Mount Vesuviuses (best. plural. ever.). I herded them into the car and rushed them home (at the speed limit, of course) so that I could get started. I had a plan.

"You play outside and I'll cook," I told them confidently, sure that this tactic would have them giggling on their bikes and launching stomp rockets into the air in no time. The best laid plans...

"Mommy, will you play a game with me?" Zach asked in that cloying three-year-old way.

"No, buddy. I have to make dinner. But your sister will probably play a game."

"I don't WANT to play a game! I want to color!"

Figures.

I finally got them (through bribery and begging) to play Chutes and Ladders while I went inside to make pasta. This simple meal has been a longtime favorite of both children and I'm very competent at preparing it. Unfortunately, after a comprehensive search of our kitchen, I realized we had no marinara sauce. But I did find tomato soup and the kids love that, too. I knew we had cheddar cheese, so I just had to find bread to make grilled cheese. (My kids balk at eating one without the other. What can I say? They have discerning taste.)

"MOOOO-OOOMMMMMM!" came the keening voice of a child who may know the difference between "tattling" and "telling," but who still relishes seeing her brother get "busted," all the same. I headed out to the garage to find Zach in his red motorized car with a devilish smile on his face.

"MOM! Zach was running into the table! And into your car OVER AND OVER again!" Zach gave me the requisite Who me? face.

After sussing out the situation, I (threatened and) redirected him and then peeked into the garage freezer. Victory! I headed back into the kitchen with the frozen loaf under one arm...to find my soup all over the burner.

This is what happens when I don't duct tape my kids to a chair while I cook.

I took two deep breaths, grabbed a potholder, pulled it off the heat, and went straight to defrosting the bread. Like Gloria Gaynor, I would survive. I got as far as taking the slices out of the microwave and delivering them onto a cutting board when I heard the garage door slam. This time, it was Natalie.

"Mom! I'm going upstairs to clean up my room, because I'm, like, gonna be a cleaning lady--for play of course! And I'll clean up my room and, like, arrange things, and..." Her voice drifted off as she ascended the stairs.

I gathered the other necessary ingredients as the garage door slammed again.

"MOOOO-OOOOOOMMMMMMY?" This time, it was the little guy.

"Yes, buddy?"

"Um...I'm..." He stutters when he's hungry and at this point, he was already rifling through the pantry. He held up a cereal box. "Can I have this?"

"You can have some. But dinner's almost ready, bud. I don't want you to spoil your appetite." I'm turning into my mom.

"Okay. Can I have some milk, too?" he asked, as he carted a bowl to the table.

"No, Zach. You cannot have a bowl of cereal before dinner. You can have a little bit of dry cereal." By now, I had cleaned up the soup mess and was shredding cheddar.

Zach launched into a long tirade--I'll spare you the details. Needless to say, he loves cereal. He repeatedly asked me for milk in a nauseatingly whiny voice that pushed every button I ever had. I threatened to send him upstairs until dinner. He finally stopped, but not before I grated my wrist along with the cheese.

 I pride myself on getting injured in new and exotic ways!

Zach remained quiet as I grilled. (Well, there were a few nearly inaudible, high-pitched noises. I'm sure he was asking for milk, but I didn't respond and he didn't push it.) I hurried the cheese and butter to the fridge while the skillet did its work...and then I smelled smoke. 

Did you know that newly-defrosted bread burns quickly over direct heat? You can bet I didn't.

Fortunately, I monitored the other side more vigilantly.

I called Natalie down and quickly served the food, before I could do any more damage. Even with all of the drama and mishaps, the kids scarfed the meal. They even humored me by sharing one thing about their day before I capitulated to their requests for Peppa Pig.

And then, as I opened the refrigerator door to pour milk for my cherubic diners, I saw this:

Isn't it ironic?