I’m a big believer in dinner prep TV time. Judge alllllll you want, with your children who want to help you cook or set the table or make tiny Brawny swans for a centerpiece. My children? They have good intentions. To drive me crazy one dinner at a time.
Last night we had exhausted our TV watching time. I do have my limits, believe it or not, and it just didn’t feel right to plop them down so I could boil some noodles.
I can do this! I thought.
And then I quickly proved myself wrong. So I did what any sane, responsible mother would do.
I liveblogged it.
Aw, honey, I understand that you want cheesy noodles. We’re having spaghetti. They’re practically the same thing… I can see how this is the end of the world.
No, I can’t help you find your Rainbow Dash.
Hear Claire calling me so head to her room to see wha–OMG WHAT HAPPEND IN HERE? Close the door. You never saw a thing.
Wait, big Rainbow Dash or little Rainbow Dash? Oh. Yeah, I have no idea. Look in the pony bin. The toy box. The abyss between your bed and the wall. No, I can’t help you right now. No, don’t pout. Okay, fine. Pout.
Oh look. You found the Sharpies.
Get off the table. Yes I know the chandelier needs cleaning, but that’s not your job. Yes, I know, it’s mine. Thank you for clarifying that. Now get down.
Y’all. It’s a stuffed frog. There are bigger problems in life.
Wow, can we cut the yelling just a bit?
Why are you sliding along the tile on your tummy? And where are your clothes?
Oh look. You found the stamps. Well, yeah, they kind of are stickers. Your dress just went up in value $3.22.
Zoe, I have to put you down. I can’t liveblog, I mean make dinner with your arms around my neck. Oh look! Mommy’s phone!
Put the knives down.
Where IS your father?
OMG why won’t you play with the phone?
Enter the father: DEAD. SILENCE. As if they had not all been screaming and crying and wailing just 2.6 seconds earlier.
In summary, the spaghetti got made. The spaghetti got eaten. The children went to bed. The mother drank a beer.