I have a confession to make. I burn stuff all the time. It’s a problem I’ve been dealing with since the onions were born. I love cooking – obviously – but it’s more than just a pastime. When I say I love it, I mean I want to marry it and have its babies. Then cut my palm and take a blood oath for it. Then take out a second mortgage to build it a better kitchen and install one of the eye-scanning entrance systems so that no unworthy souls can come near it.
Anywho, my problem is that my kids drive me bat sh!t crazy when I’m trying to cook and I get distracted. That wouldn’t be so bad except that A) it sucks all the happiness out of it for me and I want to cry because the twenty minutes of my day that I actually get to do something I want to do get turned into a frazzled cluster funk; 2) I feel like the absolute worst mother in the history of ever and want to shove skewers under my nails in penance after I’ve pulled a Bruce Banner on them and gone all green and scary and D) I feel like a failure on all counts.
I’ve tried everything to keep them entertained while I make supper. The only thing that would work would be to shove them outside and lock the door but I can’t because we have a pool out back and The World is out front. It’s like the dial on the stove is a dog whistle for kids.
And it doesn’t help things at all that Husband and Brutus eat only because they’ll eventually die if they don’t. If it doesn’t come in a McDonald’s bag, they’re not interested. So it really sucks to fight it out in the trenches only to have them eat six bites and then dig into a bag of chips thirty minutes later. Angel Baby’s like her mama which is awesome except she asks me 247 times when it’s going to be ready. Every meal. Every day. Without fail.
So, yeah, that’s the gist of it. I burn stuff. And that sucks. But my kids are awesome even if they do drive me bat-sh!t crazy.