In my experience... I'm not experienced.
I'd like to share with you all, a typical night cooking dinner at my house. This exact conversation isn't the one that happens every night obviously, but trust that they are all equally absurd.
I'll be in the kitchen pretending like I know how to operate any of the appliances in there other than the microwave (which is also questionable knowledge), Mike will be in the living room making sure the furniture doesn't rise in revolt against us, and Mackenzie will be... well everywhere.
Undoubtedly she has already asked the following questions on a loop at least 3 dozens times: Can I watch T.V.? Can I have a snack? and Is dinner ready yet?
It starts out like this, feet approach and stop exactly half a centimeter behind me. Silence of a suspicious note looms over the kitchen until I attempt to move and step on her or bump into her.
"Can I watch T.V.?"
"no."
"Can I have a rice krispie treat?"
"no, I'm making dinner."
"Well what are we having for dinner?"
"bugs. please go find something to do while I get this going"
Her confidence is evidently boosted by my skillful prodding at the stove top with a plastic spoon into a pot she can't see into because this results in, "Well, can I be your back up taster?"
"for the spiders? sure."
"I thought you said we were having bugs."
"Kenzie, please go find something to do while I'm cooking. Go play for a little bit I'll let you know when dinner is ready."
She will trot out of the kitchen and all will be quiet for exactly 20 seconds and then I will hear the sounds of paper rustling on the counter behind me and the muffled snickering of a child who is pretty sure she has completely duped her mother and then the shocked sound of a child getting busted when I say, "get out from behind the counter and go do something Kenzie."
The very tip alone of the childs head and incredulous eyeballs appear over the counter "How did you know I was there?"
"I'm your mother, I know everything."
"When will I know everything?"
"When your a mother."
"Well then will I be smarter than you?"
"No, I'll always be smarter because I'm the mom."
"Who do I get to be smarter than then?"
"Your kids."
"Well maybe I should have kids now!"
Awesome. Awesome strategy. Deep Breathes. Is the stove supposed to be making that noise? I don't think there's supposed to be this many bubbles.
"You don't have kids till your old enough to have kids."
"When will I be old enough?"
"When your 50."
"Are you 50?" This entire thing needs to be redirected immediately, as I contemplate when my daughter became smarter than me. And where the chicken is. Didn't I put it in the pan? Why isn't it in the pan now? Who put it back in the sink? Fuck... it's still frozen.
"Kenzie Jane, Please go do something and let me cook dinner"
"Well, I can help."
"no."
"Whhyyyy noooottt"
"There's a height requirement. You have to be able to see into the pot to help. You don't clear the top of the pot with your feet still on the ground. Plus your tummy is in full view of the oven and the troll living in it will get hungry and reach out and grab you. I'm trying to keep you safe."
"I've never seen a troll in the oven. How do you know he's in there."
"The monster in the basement told me."
"Why doesn't he reach out and grab you when you stand there?"
"He can only see my knees. Trolls don't like knees."
This one will be at the top of her lungs just in case Mike can't hear her properly from his strategic couch position in the next room, "MIIIIKKKEEEEE, do trolls like knees?"
at which he will yell back "don't yell across the house!" and I will facepalm, and also use the momentary distraction to try to cover up the fact that I just spent the last 20 minutes cooking olive oil and thin air and put my mastery of the microwave to use in thawing the chicken I was pretty sure I was almost done cooking.
"Kenzie, I'm trying to cook, please go do something till I'm done."
"Can I watch T.V.?"
"NO!"
after some thought she'll ask "...can I watch netflix?"
"GET OUT OF THE KITCHEN."
At this point Mike will reinforce her retreat from the kitchen and she will either reluctantly go to her room to play, or begin an entire new line of questioning to him which generally results in a pillow fight that unleashes much havoc and fabric and panicked dogs trying to dodge the blows and increasingly loud giggling that will wake up my sous-chef who is napping in his bouncy seat in the middle of the kitchen floor where it is least likely that I will step on him and break both of us. I silently curse him for not telling me about the chicken. At the end of the fluffy war she undoubtedly will ask, "Mike, can I watch tv?"
and I will hear him say, "no, go play in your room till dinners ready"
and I will both hum with joy over his support, and seethe secret disdain over his ability to actually get her to go to her room on the first try. WTF, where is the solidarity kid? Fruit of my loins. Apple of my eye. My firstborn. We will chalk this up to me deciding to be proud of the challenging individual she is growing into, and mutual respect of the fact that Mike is bigger than me and probably more impressive to someone who is 4 feet tall. The mere facet alone that at 6 years old my eldest child is already gaining on me in the height department doesn't make me exceptionally formidable. She'll probably have passed me up entirely by 9 and all hell will break loose.
This gives me a solid 20 more minutes to try to accomplish cooking a dinner that takes an hour to make that I am apparently just now starting despite masterfully sauteing olive oil. Isn't that edible? Olive oil soup? I bet I could get away with it if I slipped some noodles in it. After 20 minutes Mike will come in to examine my progress. I will show off some impressive skills at pouring myself a glass of wine. He looks decidedly unimpressed. We talk for a minute and he casts doubtful but silent glances at the stove, and the pressure of this makes me offer up an explanation "Yeah this one takes a while to cook, it'll be ready soon" I will use all of the power and extra fat in my body to will the chicken to cook faster.
"Smells Good." And that is why I will love this man forever and ever. He then leaves me to my work after appreciating the sleeping tiny apprentice in his bouncy chair, who will take all my secrets to the grave as long as he is still small enough to not be able to fess up. The next 15-20 minutes are a breeze of distracted cooking, because they should really disable facebook and pinterest while I'm in the kitchen doing anything, and by some miracle edible (debatable term) food is produced and the dinner bell rings, which sounds an awful lot like my delightful 2 month old announcing that this is one more night mom won't be enjoying hot food because I forgot to feed him before I started cooking and the wondrous aroma of my culinary masterpiece has overwhelmed his senses, so he is now hungry. It was probably the olive oil soup.
Wait where was I? OH. Dinner is ready, yes. So now all of a sudden Mackenzie is nowhere to be found so I will holler out a general call. "Kenzie!! Dinner is ready!!" then I will facepalm as I realize I just yelled across the house at her, because I'm constantly telling her not to holler across the house. "OKAAAYYYY..... MOM?"
"WHAT!? STOP HOLLERING ACROSS THE HOUSE" Another facepalm.
"IS DINNER READY!?" Stupification of the highest degree crosses over me. I realize that is not a real word.
"GET OUT HERE AND STOP YELLING ACROSS THE HOUSE." ... I can't facepalm anymore tonight its starting to leave a mark. My daughter will arrive after successfully riling up both dogs en route thus exacerbating an already volatile situation in the kitchen with the cries of my sous-chef demanding his bottle and Mike trying to get food while maneuvering around the boys bouncy chair, me making Kenzie's plate and trying to get Connors bottle ready, and now 2 hyper dogs doing whatever they can to ensure dropped food. My daughter is old enough now to attempt negotiations on dessert.
"Well Mom...if I eat all my food can I have an oreo?"
"What? Yes, if you eat all your food you can have one."
"Well if I eat it before you and Mike can I have 2?"
"Kenzie, lets just see if you even eat it all first, you pretty much never do."
"Well what if I do tonight?"
"Then I guess you'll get some oreos"
"Well if I don't finish everything can I have a cheesestick?"
at this point Mike will intervene, "Kenzie go sit down." she will disappear into the living room, because that is where we eat because my dining room table is currently being used to hold clothes I intend to sell to get them out of the closets... you know to have more space... just not... dining room table space. Don't judge me, we eat in the living room get over it.
After 5 seconds we will hear over Connor cries and dog whimpers, "MOOOMMMMM, I'm ready for you to bring me my foooood!" Another glass of wine couldn't hurt.
At this point everyone calms down, Mike and Kenzie settle in to eat, I settle in with Connor and his bottle and feed him while I wonder why I'm not losing more weight on my new wine diet. The next hour is generally spent repeatedly telling Mackenzie to eat her food, soothing Connor from his new position of hatred towards burping, and casting apologetic glances at Mike who is desperately trying to watch whatever show it is we have on over all the noise.
This dinner brought to you by Cupcake's moscato d'asti. Which tastes nothing at all like cupcakes by the way, but is in fact delicious to have along with cupcakes. Or olive oil soup. Or radiation thawed chicken.
I'll be in the kitchen pretending like I know how to operate any of the appliances in there other than the microwave (which is also questionable knowledge), Mike will be in the living room making sure the furniture doesn't rise in revolt against us, and Mackenzie will be... well everywhere.
Undoubtedly she has already asked the following questions on a loop at least 3 dozens times: Can I watch T.V.? Can I have a snack? and Is dinner ready yet?
It starts out like this, feet approach and stop exactly half a centimeter behind me. Silence of a suspicious note looms over the kitchen until I attempt to move and step on her or bump into her.
"Can I watch T.V.?"
"no."
"Can I have a rice krispie treat?"
"no, I'm making dinner."
"Well what are we having for dinner?"
"bugs. please go find something to do while I get this going"
Her confidence is evidently boosted by my skillful prodding at the stove top with a plastic spoon into a pot she can't see into because this results in, "Well, can I be your back up taster?"
"for the spiders? sure."
"I thought you said we were having bugs."
"Kenzie, please go find something to do while I'm cooking. Go play for a little bit I'll let you know when dinner is ready."
She will trot out of the kitchen and all will be quiet for exactly 20 seconds and then I will hear the sounds of paper rustling on the counter behind me and the muffled snickering of a child who is pretty sure she has completely duped her mother and then the shocked sound of a child getting busted when I say, "get out from behind the counter and go do something Kenzie."
The very tip alone of the childs head and incredulous eyeballs appear over the counter "How did you know I was there?"
"I'm your mother, I know everything."
"When will I know everything?"
"When your a mother."
"Well then will I be smarter than you?"
"No, I'll always be smarter because I'm the mom."
"Who do I get to be smarter than then?"
"Your kids."
"Well maybe I should have kids now!"
Awesome. Awesome strategy. Deep Breathes. Is the stove supposed to be making that noise? I don't think there's supposed to be this many bubbles.
"You don't have kids till your old enough to have kids."
"When will I be old enough?"
"When your 50."
"Are you 50?" This entire thing needs to be redirected immediately, as I contemplate when my daughter became smarter than me. And where the chicken is. Didn't I put it in the pan? Why isn't it in the pan now? Who put it back in the sink? Fuck... it's still frozen.
"Kenzie Jane, Please go do something and let me cook dinner"
"Well, I can help."
"no."
"Whhyyyy noooottt"
"There's a height requirement. You have to be able to see into the pot to help. You don't clear the top of the pot with your feet still on the ground. Plus your tummy is in full view of the oven and the troll living in it will get hungry and reach out and grab you. I'm trying to keep you safe."
"I've never seen a troll in the oven. How do you know he's in there."
"The monster in the basement told me."
"Why doesn't he reach out and grab you when you stand there?"
"He can only see my knees. Trolls don't like knees."
This one will be at the top of her lungs just in case Mike can't hear her properly from his strategic couch position in the next room, "MIIIIKKKEEEEE, do trolls like knees?"
at which he will yell back "don't yell across the house!" and I will facepalm, and also use the momentary distraction to try to cover up the fact that I just spent the last 20 minutes cooking olive oil and thin air and put my mastery of the microwave to use in thawing the chicken I was pretty sure I was almost done cooking.
"Kenzie, I'm trying to cook, please go do something till I'm done."
"Can I watch T.V.?"
"NO!"
after some thought she'll ask "...can I watch netflix?"
"GET OUT OF THE KITCHEN."
At this point Mike will reinforce her retreat from the kitchen and she will either reluctantly go to her room to play, or begin an entire new line of questioning to him which generally results in a pillow fight that unleashes much havoc and fabric and panicked dogs trying to dodge the blows and increasingly loud giggling that will wake up my sous-chef who is napping in his bouncy seat in the middle of the kitchen floor where it is least likely that I will step on him and break both of us. I silently curse him for not telling me about the chicken. At the end of the fluffy war she undoubtedly will ask, "Mike, can I watch tv?"
and I will hear him say, "no, go play in your room till dinners ready"
and I will both hum with joy over his support, and seethe secret disdain over his ability to actually get her to go to her room on the first try. WTF, where is the solidarity kid? Fruit of my loins. Apple of my eye. My firstborn. We will chalk this up to me deciding to be proud of the challenging individual she is growing into, and mutual respect of the fact that Mike is bigger than me and probably more impressive to someone who is 4 feet tall. The mere facet alone that at 6 years old my eldest child is already gaining on me in the height department doesn't make me exceptionally formidable. She'll probably have passed me up entirely by 9 and all hell will break loose.
This gives me a solid 20 more minutes to try to accomplish cooking a dinner that takes an hour to make that I am apparently just now starting despite masterfully sauteing olive oil. Isn't that edible? Olive oil soup? I bet I could get away with it if I slipped some noodles in it. After 20 minutes Mike will come in to examine my progress. I will show off some impressive skills at pouring myself a glass of wine. He looks decidedly unimpressed. We talk for a minute and he casts doubtful but silent glances at the stove, and the pressure of this makes me offer up an explanation "Yeah this one takes a while to cook, it'll be ready soon" I will use all of the power and extra fat in my body to will the chicken to cook faster.
"Smells Good." And that is why I will love this man forever and ever. He then leaves me to my work after appreciating the sleeping tiny apprentice in his bouncy chair, who will take all my secrets to the grave as long as he is still small enough to not be able to fess up. The next 15-20 minutes are a breeze of distracted cooking, because they should really disable facebook and pinterest while I'm in the kitchen doing anything, and by some miracle edible (debatable term) food is produced and the dinner bell rings, which sounds an awful lot like my delightful 2 month old announcing that this is one more night mom won't be enjoying hot food because I forgot to feed him before I started cooking and the wondrous aroma of my culinary masterpiece has overwhelmed his senses, so he is now hungry. It was probably the olive oil soup.
Wait where was I? OH. Dinner is ready, yes. So now all of a sudden Mackenzie is nowhere to be found so I will holler out a general call. "Kenzie!! Dinner is ready!!" then I will facepalm as I realize I just yelled across the house at her, because I'm constantly telling her not to holler across the house. "OKAAAYYYY..... MOM?"
"WHAT!? STOP HOLLERING ACROSS THE HOUSE" Another facepalm.
"IS DINNER READY!?" Stupification of the highest degree crosses over me. I realize that is not a real word.
"GET OUT HERE AND STOP YELLING ACROSS THE HOUSE." ... I can't facepalm anymore tonight its starting to leave a mark. My daughter will arrive after successfully riling up both dogs en route thus exacerbating an already volatile situation in the kitchen with the cries of my sous-chef demanding his bottle and Mike trying to get food while maneuvering around the boys bouncy chair, me making Kenzie's plate and trying to get Connors bottle ready, and now 2 hyper dogs doing whatever they can to ensure dropped food. My daughter is old enough now to attempt negotiations on dessert.
"Well Mom...if I eat all my food can I have an oreo?"
"What? Yes, if you eat all your food you can have one."
"Well if I eat it before you and Mike can I have 2?"
"Kenzie, lets just see if you even eat it all first, you pretty much never do."
"Well what if I do tonight?"
"Then I guess you'll get some oreos"
"Well if I don't finish everything can I have a cheesestick?"
at this point Mike will intervene, "Kenzie go sit down." she will disappear into the living room, because that is where we eat because my dining room table is currently being used to hold clothes I intend to sell to get them out of the closets... you know to have more space... just not... dining room table space. Don't judge me, we eat in the living room get over it.
After 5 seconds we will hear over Connor cries and dog whimpers, "MOOOMMMMM, I'm ready for you to bring me my foooood!" Another glass of wine couldn't hurt.
At this point everyone calms down, Mike and Kenzie settle in to eat, I settle in with Connor and his bottle and feed him while I wonder why I'm not losing more weight on my new wine diet. The next hour is generally spent repeatedly telling Mackenzie to eat her food, soothing Connor from his new position of hatred towards burping, and casting apologetic glances at Mike who is desperately trying to watch whatever show it is we have on over all the noise.
This dinner brought to you by Cupcake's moscato d'asti. Which tastes nothing at all like cupcakes by the way, but is in fact delicious to have along with cupcakes. Or olive oil soup. Or radiation thawed chicken.
 |
| My back up taster and my sous-chef. |