“Hey, mom! What’s for dinner?
This is, perhaps, the most annoying phrase in the English language. That, and "Your business is important to us; please hold for a representative."
I don’t know about you, but I’ve been feeding my kids for over a decade now and I’m sick of it. As my girlfriend recently said, “I'm so OVER dinner."
I suppose it’s not the cooking I hate so much as all that accompanies it. By the time you factor in planning, shopping, cooking, cleaning, and the three-hour broccoli standoff ("You will not leave the table until you've eaten your vegetables!"), Rachel Ray's 15-minute meals morph into 50 hour marathons.
Perhaps this is why I liked breast feeding so much. At first, it seemed a sensible and cheap alternative to formula. The physical and emotional bond was important too, as without it I might have sold that special someone who was demanding to eat every 90 minutes.
Upon reflection, however, I understand fully the true and deep psychological compunction to breast feed: it avoids cooking. Clearly this is some form of survival instinct. I have an Aunt that is a huge proponent of breast feeding. She chaired her local La Leche chapter and nursed her five kids until they could drive. I used to find this a bit odd, but now that I’ve been serving in the family canteen I totally get it.
When the kids were young, I could serve chips and salsa and pretend it was a meal. But now that they are are older, they have discovered that other mommies serve elaborate dishes that are nutritionally balanced. And they serve them hot. I am undone.
Since the children are too old to breastfeed, and too smart to know that Triscuits and Cheese Whiz do not constitute an acceptable meal, I find myself at a crossroads. It is time to embrace my inner Julia Child and discover some sort of meaningful self-development through cuisine.
Or I could just call for a pizza.
tlc
