One of the hardest things about being a mother, I think, is feeding children. Other mothers may disagree with me – but clearly you’re the lucky ones. Your children eat everything you put in front of them, or you love preparing fifteen different meals a day. Either way, take your smug away from me you lucky bastard.
I hate feeding my children because they always want exactly what I’m having. Only, not exactly what I’m having. They’d like ham instead of chicken, and cheese instead of mustard and tomato instead of lettuce and hey, maybe they’d like it in a bowl, not in a sandwich, and could I possibly cook some pasta to go with it?
Right up until there are so many tweaks to what I’m having that I end up making three different meals using all the plates and utensils available.
And I’m happy to tweak things, up to a point. But when it gets ridiculous (oh, you’re making a tuna salad in a bowl? Can I have that, but only ham, and no lettuce, and the other cheese, no not that one, the other one, and can you grate me a carrot as well and do we have any tomatoes or cucumber and why can’t I have …)
No.
NO.
No you may not. I can make a large version of this thing I am eating, or you can all make your own and god help you, please put everything away when you’re done.
It’s killing me, to the point that yesterday, I realised at 3pm I hadn’t actually eaten anything because I was avoiding having to play the substitutions game with the children.
Sure, they’d all fed themselves (and I fed Evelyn, god, I’m not neglectful), but they’d had things like weetbix and cheese slices and apples and carrots and some more cereal and a sweet biscuit and another piece of fruit.
But I hadn’t eaten anything because preparing food for myself just seems to invite a nightmare.
I find myself dreading mealtimes, dreading cooking, dreading the inevitable cries of “we’re hungry, what can we eat?” because I just don’t enjoy feeding anyone anymore. Everyone has an opinion they’re more than happy to shout at me.
Maybe, it would all be easier if I was a bit less busy, and a bit less tired, but seriously. The fussiness is killing me.
And no, I don’t want your solutions. I don’t need to know how to hide vegies in muffins or spaghetti sauce, because no one is eating muffins with things in it, or spaghetti sauce anyway. And no, I don’t want to hear about your miracle child who eats everything you set in front of them and maybe if I’d never even allowed sweets in the house we wouldn’t have this problem anyway.
Go bother someone else.
But if your kids are like mine, speak up? I’d just like to know I’m not alone.
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