Mac and Cheese Is Sort of Like Mother-Son Therapy
I don’t know how you working moms do it. And by working moms I mean those with a paying job. Because we all know that we are all working.
Today seemed like one long series of complaints. It began with crying in bed (our bed, I might add) followed by verbal disapproval of the “no iPad on school days” rule.
There was whining of the don’t look at me nature before breakfast and complaints that I looked at him in the car on the way to school.
Pickup time at 1:00 kicked off four and a half hours of “I’m hungry”despite two snacks and the promise of mac-and-cheese-from-scratch for dinner.
You shouldn’t have cooked that, Mommy because it takes too long! I don’t like that kind of macaroni!
When at half-past dinnertime I accidentally stepped on his foot while crossing the kitchen with a pot of boiling pasta and then discovered that his crying was for-once justified because my flip flop had bent back his great toenail and created a bobo? I felt terrible. So I said I was sorry and reached for the bandaids and neosporin that I keep in the kitchen drawer for incidents such as this which triggered a full on melt down because it was not the right kind of bandaid. In fact, he did not want a bandaid at all (because that would make the bobo more real, never mind that I could have said screw it you can either have a bandaid or dinner, you choose).
I hate you, Mommy!
And then my guilt turned to irritation. Very strong irritation. Okay, maybe I had a tantrum, too. Which kicked off my anger-shame-sadness-mommylovesyouthisbig cycle.
I told him that sometimes Mommy just gets frustrated and takes the easy way out because after hours and hours of not being good enough, getting angry is easier than letting it go. Hayden listened as best he could, given that he was dying of starvation.
And then when I spooned out some of the mac-and-cheese-from-scratch and saw that it was not nearly as cheesy dirty fattening as I would have liked, I nearly lost it all over again. I gave Hayden his plate of dinner, and things went almost quiet.
I said, “Is it good? Just tell me, is it any good?”
And he said, “You’ll just have to see!”
“JUST TELL ME IF IT’S ANY GOOD!”
“Yes, it’s really good.”
With a breath of relief and a third round of watery eyes, I made my plate. I poured a glass of ale and sat down to dinner with my son. It was the most enjoyable dinner we’d had in long time.