Dinner Time...

For about the sixth time in the last three days my kids have turned their noses up at my meal plans. It has gotten so that I mention at least three meal choices before I actually tell them what my "real" plan is.

Tonight it started with the usual: "Mom, what's for dinner?" (First question out of Keith's mouth when he walked in the door.)

I began with, "How about sandwiches?"

"Ew," Amy said, squishing up her nose.

"Okay, how about left over lasagna?"

"No, we had that last night. And I don't like lasagna," Keith whined.

"Yes, I remember you telling me that last night," I sighed at his back as he wandered to the other room.

Going in for the kill: "I was thinking rocks & worms," I said casually, trying to pretend it was just another suggestion, but secretly planning that this was the one.

(FYI: Rocks & Worms are chicken & long, thin dumplings. We call them that so that the kids will eat them.)

The girls were excited. This is a family favorite.

I started thawing the chicken and getting things together when Keith bopped back into the room.

"What's for dinner?" he asked.

"Rocks & Worms," I said, smiling, sure I had a keeper.

"Noooo," Keith yowled.

I looked up at him sharply. This little game of "What's for dinner?" was wearing thin.

"Mom... Can't we have sandwiches? I thought you said we were having sandwiches. I was thinking we could eat and watch a movie together," he whined.

I really wanted to throw things across my kitchen- really big, heavy, loud things. I held my breath and count to ten. A couple of times.

I went and pouted in the den and announced I was on strike.

Hubby said, "Honey, we don't treat children like that."

I glared at him. "Fine. You feed 'em," I retorted angrily.

"Honey," he tried chastising me again.

"Honey," I snipped back, "every single night- no every single meal- I argue with the kids about what we're going to eat. I'm tired of having this discussion! This is NOT a restaurant; it is a family kitchen. Keith doesn't want to help with the dishes. The girls don't want to help cook or set the table. But everyone wants to criticize: 'I don't like red food.' 'Does that have any nutritional value, mom? Because you know I only eat colored fat and refined sugar.' I don't see anyone complaining about your lawn care!"

He stood, hands on hips, looking at me, obviously gaging his next words carefully. He started to say something a few times, but basically just opened and closed his mouth.

Finally, he looked at the kids and said, "Okay, kids, what do you want?"

"Cereal," Keith sang.

"Me, too," Emma called.

"Can I have mine with milk?" Amy asked.

Hubby smiled victoriously. I wanted to bang my head against the wall.

The thawed out chicken went back in the refrigerator so that it can be rejected again tomorrow night. The kids ate their cereal cheerfully, and, just to rub salt in the wound, thanked hubby profusely.

The kids gave hugs to hubby and bounced up the stairs happy as little, full clams... Traitors!

Hubby was smirking from head to toe. "So, honey, what are the plans for tonight?" he asked.

I glared my best glare. "Well, I'm going to go blog about this funtabulous evening, so I don't have to kill anyone."

"Okay," he said. Was he patronizing me? That would be a bad idea.

"You know," I said, "I can kill you off in my blog." I smiled and looked off dreamily. "I'd cash out your life insurance policy..." I sighed.

"You'd miss me and you know it," he said, jutting out his chin.

"Okay, you're right," I said, very unconvincingly.

He looked sideways at me. I smiled.

"What are you doing?" he asked, as I got up from my seated position under my laptop computer.

"I'm fixing myself something to eat. And," I said, "by the way, I like my cooking..."