Let me preface this blog by saying I’m NOT BAD AT COOKING. And I’m not saying that to defend my shitty cooking.
I’m actually alright at it. I mean, I’m not going to be head chef at a 5 star restaurant any time soon, but the fire alarm doesn’t cheer me on in the kitchen and no one’s died yet, so I’m pretty sure I’m doing okay. I actually think I might even enjoy cooking in another life, but that is not this life. This life has it to where I fucking HATE cooking. Hate. yes, hate. And it’s not because what I make doesn’t taste good. IT DOES. The problem is not me at all.
The problem is my kids.
They’re not even picky eaters, I swear they just want to torture me by complaining about absolutely everything I make. Either it’s not what they wanted (even if they literally said they wanted it a few hours earlier), or it’s too spicy (when it isn’t spicy at all), or they suddenly decided they didn’t like it (even if it was their favorite last week), ORRRRRRR they just got a wild hair up their ass and decided to complain–which I swear they love to do more than anything else in the world.
If it’s a phase, if they just like to torment their deal old mommy, if they’re future food critics- I DON’T KNOW. What I do know is that there’s no way in hell I want to spend a good chunk of my day prepping, preparing, only to be whined at over some stupid nonsense when they should just be thankful I didn’t toss cereal in a bowl and go to bed.
I can only be thankful for crock pots because at least I know before they even leave for school that they are definitely, definitely going to complain about dinner because let me tell you, my little advanced pallet assholes know just by the smell, without ever tasting it, that they’re absolutely going to hate what I’m making, so I have plenty of time to prep myself for the whining.
In thinking about it, making dinner has become one of the LAST things I ever want to do. Not kidding.
Here is a list of things I would rather be doing than making dinner for my kids when they’re just going to complain:
Get a pap smear by Edward Scissor Hands
Wipe my butt after 8 hours of diarrhea with a pinecone covered in lemon juice
Have cotton balls soaked in pus shoved up my nose
Brush my teeth with skidmarked underwear
Eat a turd sandwich where the bread is made from old pubic hair
Wear shoes made out of Legos
Sleep on a pillow made from dirty bandaids
Wash other people’s two week old dishes with my tongue
What I’m trying to say here is that I’d pretty much rather do ANYTHING other than cook meals my kids are just gonna complain about… which is all of them.
Gonna need a personal chef. Gonna need to win the lottery first. Gonna need to actually play the lottery to win it. None of these things are going to happen, so I guess I’d better go make dinner now. Damnit.
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