While sitting in the minivan waiting for my kids to get out of one of their 100 activities I found myself dumpster diving through the pocket of the driver’s side door. I uncovered a half-eaten blueberry scone in a Starbucks bag…….and what is worse…. I then proceeded to EAT it. By the consistency (read: really hard to break into chewable pieces) I’m guessing it was about a week old. This did not stop me.
I did mildly choke for a minute, but thankfully there is an array of half drunk water bottles rolling around in the way back and sticking out of various athletic bags and I was able to find one that didn’t have things floating in it to wash it done.
And I wonder, is this the new face of motherhood? That we’re reduced to dumpster diving in our own minivans for sustenance? It makes me think of those idiots that they do ‘How did they survive’ Lifetime movies of when the wife decides to drive thru the Sierras in Winter without a map or cell phone and then *shock* gets stranded under 6 feet of snow and the whole family survives for a week on slimjims and a box of Tic Tacs. I’m slowly becoming this person.
I’m a complete epic failure when it comes to feeding my children. I hate the whole concept of cooking, I hate the cleaning up, I hate the faces they make because it’s inedible. Nothing about this process is fun for me. And I’m supposed to do it 3X EVERY FUCKING day until they go to college.
I recently went back to work and the first thing my husband said was ‘can we get the maid to come every week instead of every other week.’ (Side note: I may have already spent my first two paychecks at Anthropologie but opted not to bring this financial planning decision up at the time). My response was “No, I would rather have someone come and prep/cook all the meals and snacks for the kids every day so I NEVER HAVE TO ENTER THE KITCHEN AGAIN.”
This was not met with great enthusiasm.
In his defense. My husband does 80% of the cooking. He cooks 5 nights a week, he does all the food shopping and meal planning. My duties in the kitchen resemble far more ‘assembling’ than actual cooking and I STILL despise it.
I never bring anything other than wine to a potluck. The thought of having to cook and have other people judge it literally paralyzes me. There are others that should also take the wine route, i.e. anyone that has ever brought anything to a potluck that contains the word ‘lavosh’ or ‘roll’ but clearly they have other issues, so we will pray for them.
What’s the solution? I don’t know, but I do know my children believe Starbucks is a restaurant that serves breakfast, lunch and dinner. Grande = lunch. Venti = dinner.
In conclusion, I choose to surround myself with foodies. Whether they are decent people with good moral compasses couldn’t interest me less. As long as they feed me, we will get along fine.
Anyways, this blog post has made me hungry so I’m going to go ahead and see what they’re serving up in the cupholders in the third row.