Pop-Tart Fetcher Extraordinaire

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School was cancelled today because temperatures were a chilly 12 degrees this morning. I'm not sure I agree with cancelling school due to cold temps but that's probably because I don't have kids that have to wait at a bus stop in the a.m. I took advantage of the off day, letting the kids stay up a little later than usual last night so I could catch some extra shut eye this morning. This plan rarely works but that has never stopped me from trying. Today was one of those rare occasions that the kids were compliant and let me sleep while they watched some morning cartoons. It was blissful, not the kind of sleep that people without young children would appreciate (There was the occasional elbow in the stomach and lots of noise) but given my ability to tune out all non-emergencies, I slept like a baby. I awoke at around 8:30 and decided to roll myself out of the bed. I sat up, scanned the room and bid a formal good morning to my kids. My son didn't waste any time getting to the whining. Here's what he said:

Son: Why do I always have to get the pop-tarts for us in the morning?

Daughter: Because you're my Bubba.

***It should be noted that Pop-Tarts are not a typical breakfast around here. I keep them in the house for mornings when I can steal a little extra shut-eye***

That seemed to satisfy him and it made me smile so I got on with the business of my morning routine and we braved the cold for a fun day of indoor play and a lunch date with some friends. After we came home I made the kids play in their rooms for a bit while I got some things done around the house and my daughter seemed to completely forget the conversation she had that morning when I heard this coming from my son's room in a high pitched scream:

I DON'T LIKE YOU AND I DON'T WANT YOU TO BE MY BUBBA ANYMORE!

Who's going to get her pop-tarts now?

Peanut Butter Edisons

The entrepreneurial spirit is alive and well in my son. Actually, he may be more of a haphazard inventor than an entrepreneur. He's really into inventing things, mostly food items. Almost all of them involve peanut butter, which makes sense considering it is the one and only source of protein in his diet. I've become somewhat of a peanut butter Edison myself, although our innovations have different origins. My sons come from a deep creative need whereas mine are born out of a lack of groceries and a burning desire to avoid Wal-Mart at all costs.

Two mornings ago, for example, I prepared a breakfast of fresh strawberries and Peanut Butter Boats, the latter consisting of ½ of a hotdog bun slathered in peanut butter. Yes, I am a genius. And yes, I do plan to copyright the idea. My kids thought they had died and went to heaven. My son went so far as to remove the boat from his plate in a dramatic interpretation of a boat crash, complete with sound effects. It was awesome.

Driven to up the ante on the peanut butter invention competition that has taken over breakfast in my house, my son came up with a radical idea this morning. Here's what he suggest:

Son: Mommy, this morning instead of doing just a Peanut Butter Boat, I have an invention. Let's put Honey Nut Cheerios on the Peanut Butter Boat.

Me: Interesting idea. What will we call it?

Son: A Peanut Butter Boat with Honey Nut Cheerios on it.

We're copyrighting that one too.

For Daddy

My son surprises me sometimes with his capacity for generosity. About two weeks ago he did something that was especially sweet. The kids and I had lunch with my Mother and we took the kids to Wal-Mart to pick up a few things. In an effort to keep them at bay, I offered a treat to any child
who remained reasonably calm and quiet for the duration of the shopping trip. Yes, it is bribery. No, I'm not ashamed. They had their moments but, all in all, the kids were well-behaved so I bought them a package of Airhead Extremes (one of my son's favorites and easily divided among two kids). I gave the kids two strips each when we got into the car and we began our 10-minute drive home. My son and I had the following conversation:

Son: These airheads are SO good!

Me: I'm glad. Can I have one?

Son: Uh huh. Has Daddy ever tasted them?

Me: Thanks. Yes, he's had them before.

Son: I'm going to save one for him Mommy.

Me: That's sweet honey but you don't need to. He's had one before. Plus, there are two more left and I was going to give one to you and one to your sister.

Son: I'll save some of mine for him.

Me: That's really nice. I'm sure he'll appreciate that.

We got home and my son had saved about an inch and a half piece of his last Airhead strip. He wanted to make sure that his Daddy got it so, without any prompting, he took out a piece of paper and a marker and asked my Mom how to spell, "For Daddy." He wrote it on the paper and then drew a circle. He put the paper on the arm of the couch right by the front door and put the piece of candy inside the circle. There was an arrow pointing from the words to the candy.  It was painfully sweet. My Mom still talks about it to this day and boasts about my son's unprompted sweetness in a way that only a grandmother can. She told me it was blog-worthy and I have finally given the incident its due web-based validation. Mom, this one's for you!

A Lunch in the Life

If I could delete food completely from the relationship that I have with my children, my family life would improve dramatically. A single green bean has the power to send myself and my children into a frantic, emotional state. I sigh and do my best to suppress the urge to pull my hair out piece by piece.
My son makes horrible faces, preparing his mouth for the entrance of the microscopic bite of green bean by holding his nose with one hand and strategically placing his drink with the other. My daughter repeats the same line over and over like a mantra of disdain, "I don't like that. I don't like that. I don't like that. No! No! No!" or the perennial favorite (and bold-faced lie), "I took two bites Mommy. I took two bites Mommy. I took two bites Mommy" as if this statement has any relevance at all.  This scene lasts for at least twenty minutes every day.  It exhausts me and sends me into a frazzled Mom-state in which I use the television as a tool to remove the children from my presence. I can't take it anymore. Any suggestions? Words of wisdom?  Prescription drugs?

Kick in the Keister

The worst of the winter blahs appear to be behind us and my household has joined the land of the living again. My son returned to preschool today and we are all shell-shocked from the sound of the alarm clock. Three weeks without it have taken their toll and we are mourning the loss of our 8:30 wake-up time. Adieu. I even made it to the YMCA this morning. It's the first time in two months that I've breezed through those double doors. This is the equivalent of flushing $100 down the toilet so I must get back in the saddle. And, man, what a difference two months makes. The cardio room has quadrupled in size and all of the equipment is brand new. There are TV's on the majority of the machines and everything is pristine and beautiful. At 8:15, there was no wait for a treadmill so I hopped on and was reminded of what keeps me paying my dues at the Y. I love it there. My kids have a blast in the childcare center and I get to spend some quiet time with my ipod. Bliss.

As a result of my productive day thus far, I have decided that my New Year officially starts today. The past week has been a sort of 2007/2008 purgatory where I have still been trapped in holiday mode, unable to convince myself that the food free-for-all is over and life must commence again. The start of school gave me the swift kick in the keister that I needed and I'm back, armed with unrealistic resolutions and a rush of deceptive New Years energy. Unrealistic resolutions tend to have more staying power when you share them, so here goes:

1. Get published in a national magazine.
   



2. Drop 40 pounds
   



3. Get in shape.
   



4. Kick my Ambien dependancy.
   



5. Spend more quality time with my kids every day.
   



6. Spend more time outside.
   



7. Spend less time in front of the computer (this might be tough in combination with #1).
   



8. Blog three times a week. No exceptions (again, #6 is going to be a challenge).
   



9. Kick meth habit for good.
   



10. Save up for dental work (see #9).
    



11. Play more ping-pong. This one's pretty random but I got a table for Christmas).
    



12. Learn Photoshop.
    



13. Be in bed by 10pm every night.
    



14. Wake up at 6am every day.
    



15. Do strength training daily.
    



16. Purchase a pop-up or travel trailer.
    



17. Earn a steady income.
    

With all of these contradictory goals, I should be on the fast track to failure. Happy New Year everyone!

He Likes It! He Really Likes It! Wait… No, Maybe Not

I was forced to be creative with my dinner tonight. I usually work with a plan when it comes to dinner. I know what I'm going to have and I have all of the ingredients for each dish. I lost track of time today. It got late and I ended up with nothing defrosted. I had to improvise. I combined all of
my shredded cheeses together, cut up some onions and peppers and combined them with hashbrowns for some surprisingly delicious hashbrown casserole. I defrosted some chicken and made chicken nuggets and I steamed some broccoli. I thought to myself, "Damn. You're a great Mom. You threw together a delicious, kid-friendly meal in no time flat. You go girl!"

Here's the exact response I got from my son after he finished his first bite:

When I first put it in my mouth I liked it just a little bit but when I started doing this (makes dramatic chewing motions with his teeth), it started to taste bad. The taste just got worse and worse until I swallowed it. When I eat the next bite, I'm going to try to take a small one so I don't have to chew much.

It's good to be appreciated.

Quick Quiz

How many pounds of candy would you expect to receive at a small town Christmas parade?

Perhaps you think even one pound is a ridiculous estimate.

What if said town was home to an M&M Mars plant? Would that change your answer? Maybe not, but it would probably change the quality of the candy.

My children came home with two plastic grocery bags full of candy. Good candy. We're not talking candy canes and Bit O' Honey's here. We're talking Twix bars, M&M mini bags, Smarties, Skittles and Starburst. The bags were so heavy and full that my husband decided to weigh them. He hopped on the scale holding the bags and then jumped on bag-free. The difference? Eight pounds. Eight pounds of high-fructose corn syrup delight. Eight pounds of preschool crack. Eight pounds of, well, pounds on the hips and guts of my growing family. My kids think its Halloween again, only all they did was sit on the side of the road with cow-eyed looks and open grocery bags.

The parade may have encouraged sugar-induced comas and tooth decay but all was not lost. One of the last floats was sponsored by a local gym. Floating atop the sea of candy, just below the handles of the grocery bag, were several 14-day gym passes. I won't tell you where those ended up.

Halloween Fallout

Top Eight Signs that Halloween is Over:

1. You had your first Tootsie Roll at 8:30 am.
   



2. Your children woke up in their costume, confused because they passed out in a sugar coma last night.
   



3. You keep reliving your interaction with the fifteen year old, costume-less punks who rang your doorbell, asking you to fill their pillowcases with candy. Why the hell did you give in? Next year's plan: order custom fortune cookies with the message, "You should have worn a costume" printed on the fortune slip to pass out to unsuspecting teenage punks.
   



4. You start putting away money for your child's next dentist appointment.
   



5. You have to resist the urge to throw the contents of the plastic pumpkins into the garbage disposal to save your growing waistline.
   



6. You don't care if you never see a piece of candy corn again. Good riddance high fructose corn syrup nuggets.
   



7. You hear this come out of your mouth, "Yes, you can have another piece of candy if you eat this baby carrot."
   



8. You call your husband at work and accuse him of stealing all of the Snickers.
   

Live Active

Anyone seen this product? Is it cheese? Is it a laxative? Who knows? And who, in their right mind, is going to make the connection between
constipation and cheese?

I’m constipated. Hmmm…
I think I’ll head to the dairy aisle.

And why are these products always marketed to women? Are we
the only ones who ever experience irregularity?

Sorry. I'm done now.

Faux Potatoes

Whose bright idea was it to create “healthy mashed
potatoes?” Isn’t that an oxymoron? Anyone who tells you that, when blended to
the right consistency, cauliflower is a dead ringer for good ol’ fashion
russets is a liar.

Mashed potatoes are a delicacy that should not be forsaken.
They are usually the first sampling of “real food” that babies have the pleasure of tasting. They are a
Thanksgiving staple and they can be made an infinite number of ways dependant
upon the herbs and spices added, the variety of potato, the presence of skin,
texture and the ratio of milk and butter. No matter how you make them, mashed
potatoes are magically delicious.

Low-carbers of the world take notice: feel free to eat
mashed cauliflower to your hearts’ content, just spare us the diet-speak. You and
I both know that no matter how much cream cheese and garlic you throw in the
mix, blended cauliflower tastes like cauliflower. God help the poor soul who
serves me mashed cauliflower with my Thanksgiving turkey.

Civilian PIs and Creme Brule

It is taking every ounce of will power I have not to
dedicate an entire blog entry to the creme brulee that I had on Wednesday night
at Jiko, an African restaurant known as as €œThe Cooking Place€ nestled in the
Animal Kingdom Lodge in Walt Disney World. Those of you who know me are
probably not surprised by this. I love food, especially high quality food. That
is part of the appeal of Disney World: you can take the whole family out
to a five star restaurant. I can€'t think of any other place on earth where you
can order from one of the best wine lists in the country while your child
feasts on a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on rainbow bread.

Back to the
creme brulee: it was flavored with ground pistachios, situated atop a bed of
dark chocolate and perfectly torched to a candied shell deliciousness on top. It
was perfect.

I digress.

On Friday night we took the whole family to the California Grille, one of the
nicest restaurants on Disney property. A couple feet down from us, seated at the bar, were
some familiar faces. We enjoyed our sushi and flat bread appetizers while the
kids feasted on an elegant plate of goldfish and tried our best to figure out who those people were. My husband, his curiosity peaked,
got up to take our son to the bathroom. He came back and said, "We'€™ve got some
Doodlebop action at three-o-clock."

I was surprised by my own reaction, "€œNO WAY!"€

We had just seen the Doodlebops in concert the day prior and
the kids loved it. They danced with much more enthusiasm than good ol Britney at
the VMA'€™s this weekend and Sean and I were pleasantly surprised at the quality
of the show. It felt like a preschool rock concert.

For those of you unfamiliar with the Doodlebops, they are an
extremely popular preschool singing group that have a half hour show on the
Disney Channel. Unlike their Australian counterpart The Wiggles, the Doodlebops
wear a great deal of make-up and elaborate costumes so they have the benefit of
a relatively normal existence outside of the whacked-out Doodlebop world.
Except of course, when they are in the presence of civilian PI€™s like my
husband who can spot them a mile away, even without the blue hair. We decided
to keep our Doodlebop sighting on the DL to protect our kids from the harsh
reality that Moe Doodle is, in fact, a small man with black hair in designer
duds munching on flat bread at the bar. My husband, always stretching the limits
of his own dorkiness,  couldn'€™t resist a little poke at Moe on the way out. He
tapped him on the back and said, "€œGreat show Moe!"€ I averted my eyes and ran
towards the elevator.

Will Work 4 Food

I am a hopelessly flawed mother. I have moments of greatness
but they are outnumbered by the poor decisions that I make throughout my days.
Take today. I was feeling guilty because, in the 24-hour period that follows
our arrival home from any vacation, I morph into a domestic goddess. It is
short lived but fabulous. I don an apron (not really—that would be my husband’s
fantasy version of this story), crank up the G. Love and clean the hell out of
my kitchen. By the time my work is done, the refrigerator is so shiny that you
can actually see your reflection in the faux stainless steel finish. The smell
of floral-laced cleaning chemicals fills the air. It is a wonderful feeling knowing that, although your children
may suffer briefly from inhaling a little bleach, their chances of contracting
mad cow disease or e-coli are drastically reduced. Sean and I can rest easy
tonight, knowing that our children our germ free. We can address the whole
bleach inhalation thing at a later date. Right now I just want to savor the
cleanliness.

When I finally awake from my domestic goddess hypnotic
state, I realize, Oh yeah, I’ve got some kids. Those kids might need me to
acknowledge their existence sometime today. I’ve got a great idea! Let’s
all cook something together. The kids will love it. I’m making vegetarian
lasagna. Yum. It’s every kid’s dream dish. I try to get the kids to smash up
the tofu with me. No dice. My son doesn’t want to get his hands dirty and my
daughter is too busy spraying her “cleaner” (a spray bottle filled with water)
on everything. So, I crack an egg open and let my son dump it into the bowl. I
add the spinach, the tofu and spices and tell him to stir. No dice. My hands
were freshly washed when I grabbed the spoon and I got a few water droplets on
the handle. He won’t touch it. What a prima donna. My next step is layering the
lasagna. This, the kids love. They place the noodles gently along the bottom of
the pan and fight over who gets to do what. I try to referee, making them take
turns. I usually enjoy cooking but this is work. Both my kids have to stand on
chairs to reach the counter so I can hardly reach anything and I am crammed
between my daughter’s chair and the stove. The space available for me, the actual
cook, is about one square foot. I pour my first glass of wine of the evening.

I decide that I don’t need to feel guilty. I just spent an
entire week at the beach with these mongrels. I should be able to cook in
peace. I send them into the living room and shut the door (ah, the benefits of
living in an older home—there’s a door between every room). I drink my wine
slowly, crank up Ben Harper and wait for the lasagna to cook. When it comes to
cooking assistance, I’m making up a new house rule: if you’re going to help
make it, you’ve got to eat it. This should cut down drastically the presence of
my little su-chefs.

Mouse Plans

We’re going to Disney World again. We went last year in October and had a better time than I ever thought we would. I never dreamed I’d be a
once-a-year Disney World person but, as it turns out, I might be. A deal came along that I couldn’t refuse and
we got a week long trip at a Disney resort, including meals and tickets, for
less than the price of a condo rental at the beach. Who can pass that up?

So, for all of you Disney haters out there, I know where you
are coming from. I realize I am the
victim of a vast marketing ploy. I
realize the gift shops at Disney World probably make enough revenue to fund a
third world country. I realize that the
park itself is the very antithesis of nature. I realize that a child who gets to go to Disney World for a week every
year is probably going to have their share of entitlement issues. I acknowledge all of these things and, yet,
as one of the most cynical people I know, I also recognize the fact (and I’m
going to vomit a little in my mouth as I write this) that it really is a
magical place.

Candy Frappe

Why is it that a milkshake becomes trendy when the ambience
is right? I went to the bookstore
looking for inspiration yesterday. I
was greeted at the front door by a sign that read, “Try our new Candy
Frappes.” It featured clear plastic
cups, filled to the brim with frozen coffee-flavored
goodness intermixed with
ground up pieces of my favorite candies. “Yum,” I thought, “I could peruse the writing section and sip my
delicious coffee flavored treat.” Normally, I would deny myself a milkshake in favor of an unsweet tea but
something about the new book smell and the fact that it was called a “Frozen
Frappe” and not a “Blizzard” made it OK, even a little sophisticated.

The nutrition information is about the same but the people
who sit in coffee shops and bookstores and sip Frappes are quite different from
the folks over at the Dairy Queen spooning cookie dough infused ice cream into
their mouths. The latter is a clear,
sometimes sickening, snapshot of American indulgence. The former is a respectable, often even sophisticated, photograph
of pretentious intellectuals at work and play. It’s a scam. Just because the
lady at the Dairy Queen is wearing sweatpants and a banana clip doesn’t make
her any more indulgent than the woman in a business suit with the trendy
haircut at Starbucks. They’re all the
same. American indulgence crosses all
financial, educational and cultural lines. This is what I thought, at least, driving out of the parking lot of the
bookstore, voraciously slurping up the last of my M & M Frappe.

The Sweet Melodies of Sanjaya Malakar

My daughter’s birthday is less than a month away. She will be two. I’m still in shock. I know it is a cliché but time passes at
lightning speed. Babies are gone before
you even realize how much you adore having a baby around and demanding toddlers
take their place. They start to talk
and argue and you long for the days when they would stare up at you from the
nook in your arm and smile with sheer delight at the sight of your face. Things change. Fast.

My current dilemma is a very important one. It has to do with my daughter’s cake. What kind of cake am I going to order? She’s not really a TV watcher so she’s not
into any particular characters. On our
trip to Disney World last fall she screamed and clawed at my shoulders like a
cat trying avoid water every time Mickey or any of his pals would come within
20 feet of her so the Disney gang is out of the question. When my son turned two he was really into
Dora the Explorer. It was obvious that
she was his favorite character and that made the cake choice easy. My daughter is a little more of a
challenge. She is into yelling, eating sand and swinging. How does that
translate into a cake?

I like to torture my husband about this cake business. He loathes all celebrity culture and thinks
our society’s obsession with Paris Hilton is going to be the downfall of
humanity. It is for this reason that I
regularly quiz my daughter about what she wants on her cake in his presence. Here’s how our conversation goes:



Me: Tatum, do you
want Lindsay Lohan on your cake?

Daughter: Nods and
smiles

Me: How about
Brittney Spears?

Daughter: Nods and
smiles

Me: Do you want
her with hair or without?

Daughter: Nods and
smiles

Me: How about the
Girls Next Door (Hugh Heffner’s girlfriends and a really trashy reality show that
I love to watch in secret)?

Daughter: Nods and
smiles

My husband hates this. I try to quiz my daughter while we are in the car so that he cannot
escape. It’s a source of endless
entertainment for me.

Right now I’m leaning towards an American Idol cake. Every Monday night my daughter watches
American Idol with us and dances like crazy, in the nude, to every
performance. In some sort of a
Pavlovian reaction, she immediately starts undressing when she hears Ryan
Seacrest’s voice and insists on being completely naked for the duration of the
show. Watching her rock out to the
sweet melodies of Sanjaya Malakar in the nude is, by a landslide, my favorite
part of the week. Would a cake with a
headshot of Sanjaya on it be inappropriate for a two-year-old’s birthday
party?

Mikey Likes It! He Really Likes It!

A miracle happened today in my small Tennessee town. My son tried a new food. Actually it was a new condiment but a
miracle is a miracle. I have been
pretty sick this week and, as a result, some friends offered to take my
children off my hands for the day. I
can’t express my gratitude for them for offering and, just as any normal
neurotic person would do, I worried about who to choose. If I choose Holly, will Melinda and Angie
get their feelings be hurt? It was a
crisis of the highest order in my small, obviously distorted world. In the end I chose Melinda because she
offered first and she offered twice.

This, apparently, was a very good decision as she managed to
get my son to do two things that are way out of his comfort zone: try a new
food (honey mustard) and eat the crust off a sandwich. If you thought I was going to say ride a
rollercoaster or try sushi, you don’t know my son. It’s all about baby steps in our family. When getting water poured on your head in
the bath is a huge, painful ordeal, eating the crust off of a sandwich is a
victory. Such is life in the Hale
household.

How did Melinda do it? I’ve always thought she was a clever, resourceful Mom. Whenever we have been together and I’ve
asked her advice about something that relates to parenting, she gives unusual,
creative answers that I would otherwise not have considered. In this case, she ordered him some chicken
nuggets when they were out and they came with honey mustard. He responded the way he always does. He gave a look of disgust, picked up the
honey mustard and said, “I don’t like this.” She asked him if he’d ever tried it. He told her no. She told him
how important it was that he try new things and asked if he would try it if it
were a new flavor of ice cream. He said
he would.

She said, “How do you know that this will not taste as good
as the new flavor of ice-cream?”

This
simple, yet genius, question sold my son. He tried the honey mustard and, predictably, did not like it. This does not, however, take away from the
fact that he did try it. He’s like
Mikey in the Life Cereal ads of old. Remember, “Mikey likes it! He
really likes it!”? That’s how I feel
about my son. It is so rare that he
tries anything new that him actually liking something new is the equivalent of
a medium-sized lotto win. So, today’s accomplishment was kind of like finding
$20 in a parking lot. It sure feels
good and you want to tell your friends about it but it doesn’t buy much. One thing is for sure; it beats pocketing a
penny that has traveled the length of a three-year-old’s digestive system. I’ll take it, if for that reason alone. So, thanks Melinda. You performed some sort of voodoo magic on
my son today and turned him into a fairly intrepid kid. Kudos to you!

I Thought it Was Chicken

I've been slacking on the blog this week but I have a good excuse.  I've been really sick and pretty much bed-ridden.  I'm finally feeling a little better.  The creative juices, however, are not exactly flowing today.  So, in lieu of an original story, I've decided to steal one from a friend.  Here's a breakdown of the conversation that took place between Jacquelyn and her son Patrick (3) yesterday:

Patrick:  My tummy hurts Mommy.

Jacquelyn:  Where does it hurt? Do you need to go potty?

Patrick:  No.  I ate money.

Jacquelyn:  What?  Why?

Patrick:  Because I thought it was chicken.

It turns out that little Patrick had swallowed a penny, thinking it was a piece of chicken.  It was an honest mistake.  I'm happy to report that the penny has made its way safely through Patch's digestive system, out of his body and back into Jacquelyn's pocket (no, I'm not kidding) proving, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that the girl will do anything to save a penny.

Poultry Pudding

I met some friends for lunch today at the mall and went through my usual mall routine: 

• Pick up Chic-Fil-A for the kids



• Push the stroller through a sea of tables and people to find a table big enough to hold a half dozen kids and four adults



• Get out the kids’ food, drinks and condiments (there are always condiments)



• Make the obligatory finally-ready-to-eat bathroom trip



• Wait my turn to get my food (the Mamas take turns)



• Eat



• Nag my son to eat his food



• Eat



• Bribe my son so that he eats his food



• Eat



• Break up a fight between my son and Katherine



• Eat



• Break up a fight between my son and Camden



• Threaten my son within an inch of his life in order to get him to eat



• Wipe ketchup off my daughter’s new shirt



• Eat

This is the normal sequence of events at the mall. I know the mall may not seem like the best
place for kids but it has a free indoor playground that the kids and I frequent
when the weather is questionable. Today
things took a turn for the worse when my son refused to swallow his chicken
nugget.

This has happened before but it was a long time ago and I
had forgotten how utterly absurd and frustrating it is. I told him that he could not have an
ice-cream cone until he ate his last chicken nugget and he obediently put the
whole nugget into his mouth where it stayed for at least 15 minutes (this is
NOT an exaggeration). By the time the
other kids were finishing up their ice cream, my son had a mouthful of chicken
paste and a melting dish of ice cream in front of him.

He chewed that chicken until it was poultry pudding but he
would not swallow it. My response was
the same as any reasonable parent’s would be: anger. My pulse was racing. I felt
sick to my stomach every time he spoke and bits of chicken pudding would
shoot out of his mouth and land on the table or my lap. My friends were dry heaving just watching
him and I had to fight the urge to grab him by his ears and yell, “Just swallow the damn
chicken!” This was obviously not an
option so I waited, reminding him intermittently about his melting ice cream. It got down to the wire and he asked me for
a drink. After a couple sips the drama was over. The chicken paste was gone. I gave my son his ice cream and my blood pressure started to
normalize. I took my napkin and wiped
the fallout chicken bits from my son’s whining off of my lap and went on with my
day, privately wondering if there were any other 4-year-old nut cases out there
who held meat in their mouths for extended period of time for no particular
reason.

My Daughter Vs. A Bowl of Spaghetti

Who won?

Civil Disobedience

Why is it that when you become a parent, restaurants that
were once considered absolutely out of the question for even a snack become our
regular dinner spots? I have gotten
into the habit of taking my kids to McDonalds every Wednesday after
school. Both my son and daughter love
the playground, which is indoors so it is a perfect winter hangout, and my son
really looks forward to this ritual. Five years ago I could count on one hand the number of times I visited
McDonalds in a year. These days, I’m
just praying that the number is less than fifty. 

If I really sit and ponder this a little while, it
absolutely blows my mind. I read “Fast
Food Nation” before my son was born and was appalled by what I learned. I watched “Super Size Me” and was repulsed
by what became of Morgan Spurlock during his 30-day experiment in American
excess via the McDonald’s Drive Thru. I
consider myself to be a relatively savvy, well-meaning consumer and yet I take
my children to McDonald’s once a week. We order our Happy Meals and I watch my children devour deep-fried
chicken nuggets and French fries along with perfectly preserved “fresh” apple
slices (what do they put on those apples?) and chocolate milk. I try to order one of their surprisingly
tasty and fresh salads for myself but wait with baited breath for my children
to run off and play so that I can scavenge their leftovers. Despite my loathing of the establishment, I
love me some chicken nuggets and fries. They are magically delicious.

I already know why I go to McDonald’s. It’s no secret. I go because it’s all about convenience and instant
gratification. You order your food and
it is ready within five minutes (most days). You sit in a room with a bunch of other parents and kids, surrounded by
plastic play equipment. You eat and
then your kids leave and play, REALLY play, while you get some peace and
quiet. It’s a little bit of serenity
for my Wednesday afternoon. I’m not
sure that Thoreau would approve of my store bought serenity but, hey, it works
for me.  I won't pray at the alter of the golden arches but I will help add to the "Over 1 Billion Served" sign.