Tonight, I'm writing this while my husband cleans the kitchen and my little ones veg out in front of the television, which has been on for well over the recommended 30 minutes for toddlers (oh, I don't know, somewhere in the ballpark of ever since they woke up from their naps?). I've been sent to my room by my saint of a husband to relax after my mini-meltdown over dinner.
Can I tell you a secret? I really don't like to cook. Actually, most days I abhor it, and I'll drag my feet like a child headed to the dentist when it's time to prepare dinner.
Oh, I used to really enjoy cooking. I would drift off into Master-Chef-land whenever I pulled out my sleek, hard-anodized cookware (one of the perks of having a husband who worked a brief stint at Bed Bath and Beyond) and held my stainless steel measuring cups in my hand. None of that cheap, teflon-plated junk or gaudy plastic for our family! I had a full-time job and could blow my money on expensive ingredients and superfluous gadgets, explaining every step of my recipes out loud, as if Gordon Ramsey were, in fact, standing at my side, watching me create art in a saucepan. That's why I loved it. I felt it was one more way I could be an artist.
But that was pre-kids.
And pre-food-allergies.
And pre-I-have-no-idea-what-time-my-husband-will-be-home-from-work.
Now, I have to tiptoe around babies and foods, read every recipe like it's the formula for plutonium, and substitute half the ingredients for some obscure form of coconut (which, is in fact, not a tree nut, but rather a fruit...and one of the few things I'm not allergic to). What else am I not allergic to? OUTRAGEOUSLY EXPENSIVE FOODS.
Not to mention that everyone in our family has specific food requirements. All three of the guys can have bread with their meal; not me. My toddler needs his food cut up into big chunks; my baby needs his cut into tiny pieces. My husband...well, he ends up getting his food dumped on his plate at the last minute. And he considers himself lucky if it's still warm.
The past few meals have been burned to a crisp because every five minutes my one-year-old (no matter where in the house I sit him down) frantically scoots his way to the oven and belts out ear-piercing screams until I pick him up. As was the case tonight.
I made roasted Brussels sprouts with bacon and pan-fried chicken (soaked in coconut milk and coated with coconut flour, paprika and chili powder...I might as well have just fried up a coconut). Everything was burned by the time I finally got it cooked, and since I'd given Riley puff crackers to keep him calm while I cooked, he wanted nothing to do with his food but to mash it in his fingers before throwing it on the floor. And Liam just wanted to eat the ketchup.
I believe that's when I gave my husband a desperate, overwhelmed, on-the-verge-of-tears look (and possibly a whiny, woe-is-me outburst) that got me sent to my room, leaving him to clean up the wreckage I left in the kitchen and entertain the boys until bedtime.
I need some gluten.
Like, real bad.
I just want to order a pizza, loaded with melty, gooey cheese, chicken, BBQ sauce (WITH corn syrup, daggummit) and pineapple piled on top of a fluffy crust. And after that, I believe I could devour about a dozen Boston cream doughnuts...and—who am I kidding?—probably lick the remaining icing off the bottom of the box.
Dream big, friends. Dream big.
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