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Broke Wife, Big City
Order up!
By Aprill Brandon
Due to my position as a feral housewife who writes about her family, I
am often asked by people what advice I’d give to someone who was unsure
about having children.
OK, technically no one asks me that question but it seemed like a good
opener and I have been itching to use the phrase “feral housewife” for
weeks now ever since I encountered it on a random Internet meme. But if
someone DID ask me this question, my answer would be this:
Are you ready to make three meals a day, every day, for probably the
rest of your life, only to have each of those meals verbally
eviscerated by tiny personal versions of Gordon Ramsey? No? Then get
you a dog and prepare to live a happy, peaceful life.
If yes, my sincerest apologies in advance. I recommend stocking up on
boxed wine and designating a drawer in your fridge as your “stress
cheese” drawer now before you even get started.
See, no one warned me and my husband that children expect to eat all
the time. Nor that they also hate any and all food. Oh sure, our
friends and family might have mentioned their children were “picky”
eaters but we, in our sweet, innocent naivety, didn’t realize “picky”
is code for “eats three things but not really even those things.” For
example, my children only eat chicken nuggets, macaroni and cheese, and
fish sticks (but not THAT kind of fish sticks, the other kind). Oh
wait, sorry, they also say they like pizza. Except they don’t really
like pizza. My first grader only eats the crusts and my preschooler
makes me scrape off all the toppings and sauce so she can eat the dough
underneath. Because they are monsters.
Adding insult to injury were all the parenting books we read (ok, the
one parenting book we kind of skimmed) that insisted family mealtimes
are of the utmost importance for a child’s development without ever
once mentioning that the majority of those family mealtimes would be
spent arguing over how the mashed potatoes smell gross and the meatloaf
looks like dog poop.
Then there’s all the doctors insisting on the importance of children
eating a varied diet full of different vitamins and nutrients in order
to be healthy. LIES. All of it. My children are somehow still thriving
and with a seemingly endless supply of energy despite not knowing the
difference between a tomato and a watermelon (true story, it was an
actual argument we had).
They don’t even have scurvy and I’m pretty sure they should have scurvy
by now. My daughter licked an apple six months ago and it’s the only
vitamin C she’s had since. I’m not saying science is wrong. I’m a big
believer in science. I’m just saying that while man cannot live on
bread alone, little boys apparently can because science simply cannot
compete with the stubbornness of children.
I used to enjoy cooking, you know? I found it calming and at the same
time creative. I found a quiet joy in chopping and a contentment in
coming up with new menu ideas. A chef transforming ingredients into
life sustaining works of art for the people she loved.
But now? I am merely a sweaty, red-faced short order cook, taking the
same orders in a gruff manner day after day and barking out names of
dishes for my husband to whisk away to our unhappy regulars.
It’s exhausting.
Perhaps that’s why it all came to a head a few nights ago. Maybe that’s
why after enduring meal after meal greeted with that same look of
disgust and disappointment on their faces, I lost it. Or possibly those
selfish little picky weasels had it coming.
Whatever it was, I snapped. Over an hour making bangers and mash,
complete with fresh bread and hand-breaded onion strips, all greeted
with groans and anger. ANGER. They didn’t just not like my food, they
were angry I would even make it for them and present it to them.
So I did the scariest thing a mom on the edge could do. I swallowed my
own rage and looked coolly at them. Then, in my calmest voice, I said…
“Fine.”
And their dinner went into the trash can.
Dramatic, sure. But not if you view it in context. That context being
my first instinct was to throw open the window and hurl the plates even
more dramatically through it.
Oh, you should have heard it. The howling, the wailing. How could I do
that?! What will we eat now!? We were going to eat it, we swear! Can
you make us something else?
To which I answered, easy, nothing, don’t care, nope.
And for the first time, my kids went to bed without their supper.
Now, I’m not naive enough to think that this little episode will change
anything. But when it comes down to it, that’s not the point. The point
is it felt really, really good and I’m even smiling now as I type this
and remember the look of horror on their little faces. I got back a
little bit of my power, even if it was for only one evening.
And I still have my “dramatically throws food out the window” bit should they forget what going to bed hungry feels like.
Can’t get enough of Aprill? Can’t wait until next week?
Check out her website at http://aprillbrandon.com/
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