Nuke another hot dog.

I saw this today and thought it was so funny, and so true.

 

Which led me to thinking.  It’s strange that I used to find cooking relaxing!! I remember a time when I looked forward to going home and cooking (while watching STYLE or reading a magazine that wasn’t about parenting or cooking) as Jarrod and I talked about our day.  Those days are long gone. I mean LONG, long gone. I can’t even see them in the rear-view mirror anymore.

 

Cooking now is like an Olympic sport OR like an episode of Iron Chef. Seriously, you want some entertaining TV?? Let’s put those celebrity Chefs in a kitchen with a hungry 3 year old and just see how much they get done. And just for fun let’s have their “culinary genius” judged by a panel of 3 year olds. Talk about criticism.  Talk about some good reality TV. I’d watch it.

 

The second we walk in the door Stratton heads for the snacks. Then WW3 ensues as I tell him he can’t have a snack, because (hopefully) supper will be ready soon. And then and there, in the middle of our kitchen, the nightly “Battle of the Snack vs. Dinner” takes place. And while there is no bloodshed, there is plenty of drama and usually ends in a traumatic tantrum which leads to this momma bringing out the big guns. . .aka the wooden spoon.  Battle over. And apparently forgotten since we will inevitably meet again same time same place the next day. . . The unworthy opponent  retreats to the living room to watch Disney Jr. and drink his chocolate milk.

 

Mere minutes later, he returns to find out what I am cooking, and upon learning that we aren’t having his top choice of hot dogs or pizza, commences to throwing another fit and whines about how he doesn’t like whatever I decided to cook. Then he continues to annoy me test my patience by messing with the dirty dishes in the sink, getting in the drawers (especially my baking drawer where I keep the marshmallows), getting into the fridge and cabinets. . . basically anything he can do to slow down the process of me getting food on the table in a timely manner.

 

One day a few weeks ago when my mom was over we were all in the kitchen getting supper ready and no one was paying much attention to Stratton. (BIG mistake. ) I look over and he’s at the sink with the dish scrubber brush IN HIS MOUTH, brushing his teeth. Can I just say that had one of those moments where I honestly thought there might be something mentally wrong with my child. WHO DOES THAT??? I snatched it away from him (had a mini stroke) and then I panicked. I started thinking back to the last time I used it. . .was it to scrub raw chicken off the cutting board??. . . Then, Jarrod saved me from the guilt of giving my son salmonella and told me he had just pulled it out of the dishwasher (which we always run on sanitize cycle) a few minutes earlier. RELIEF. True Story. I can’t make this stuff up folks.

 

I do try to let him help sometimes. That’s a BIG step for me. My OCD self has a hard time “letting him do-it”. Like when he carefully places 45 pieces of pepperoni in the same 1 inch section of the pizza. . . It takes all I have in me to not go behind him and spread them out where they are even and symmetrical. This actually happened again last night and after his pizza was cooked and on his plate he decided that there were too many pepperonis on it and they were burning his mouth, so he picked them all off.

 

I long for a day when I have clean, well behaved children who are eager to help me in the kitchen and thrive on following specific instructions. . . but while I’m dreaming, I’ll pretend I’m in my custom kitchen with professional grade appliances putting together a lavish four course meal . . . and not washing off the chicken that fell in the floor.

 

I digress. . .and nuke another hot dog.