I forgot to plan dinner yesterday. In Wolfinbarger-land, this is as much of a bad omen as dead birds falling out of the sky or say, the Missouri River turning to blood. Maybe it’s because I’m burned out with cooking(okay, there’s really no maybe about it). But the creatures I live with must eat, so my disposition toward preparing grub bears little relevance when confronted with rumbly, grumbly tummies.
I planned to stop by the store(for the umpteenth time this week) and pick up something quick and easy. But there was traffic. And a car accident. And I didn’t feel like it. So I decided I was the queen of my castle and fairly creative to boot, so it would be easy to walk to the freezer, pull out a frozen brick of something, and combine it with a carbohydrate doo-dad, and throw in some veggies for garnish. But I got sidetracked with doggies and a fourteen-year-old whining creature from the black lagoon who was squealing that life as we know it would end if he didn’t have sweat pants and a new book bag immediately. On a normal day I would dispatch all of these distractions with a quick whip of my snarky tongue, but yesterday I was feeling a little off my oats. In truth, I had the terrible, horrible brain fog of doom. And so all I could do was stand there staring while drool dripped off of my lip as I contemplated which problem to address first. Except that by that point my brain was so scrambled I couldn’t remember my name. You think I’m joking.
And right about the time I figured out which problem was most important(FOOD!) my husband walked in the door. Which is just as much of a bad omen, as say, dead bodies popping out of the ground, because if I don’t have dinner solved by the time he walks in with his “I just laid 100 yards of flooring and I want my dinner now” look, we are ordering takeout. Before I could say, “I’m not sure what to do about dinner” he said, “Little Ceasars or Imo’s.” He brushed his hands together in that gesture that signifies “problem solved” and then dispatched the whining teenager, and gave me action items for the other problems I have not mentioned on this blog. Hunger turns him into a very efficient problem solving machine.
Still, I stood in the hallway and tugged on my lip. Because I don’t consider carry out pizza as real food. In fact, I would rather saw my body in half than offer such nutrient deficient quasi-food to the precious fruit of my loins(my children). So I proposed a compromise. We could eat at the Oriental Buffet. They could eat friend whatch-a-macallits with their salad and I would find veggies and protein of gladness. But this suggestion went over as well as a beer at a wine bar, and I was voted down quicker than you can say burgers and fries. And because three hungry and whiny boys are worse than chickens who have recently been recently deprived of their heads, I suggested an economical and “not-as-bad-as-pizza-or-burgers” option; Firehouse Subs.
And dinner was settled.
Or so I thought.
So we all piled in the car and the little one said, “I’m starving!” and the bigger one said, “Me too!” And my husband promptly got us lost in some back-end neighborhood by way of a short-cut his wife told him not to take. And all the while I’m thinking about how I can’t eat Firehouse Subs because I don’t like their salads. But surely I can come up with a compromise. Right? It’ll be easy. Just read through the menu and determine a healthy option and everything will be good. Except my food neurosis is no match for foggy brain. Especially when the little one is screaming, “Chips! I want chips!” and the bigger one is whiny-whispering “I want chips too. And soda. Mom, I want soda.” But EVERYONE knows we don’t drink soda because it erodes tooth enamel AND because it is bad for our bodies. You see, my children know about all of my nutritional proclivities and once given “the look” know what the answer is before I utter it out loud. And so I resolved to not eat because the menu confused me.
So the girl behind the counter was like, “Are you ready to order or what?” And then(as if things weren’t confusing enough) I whipped out my coupon(because I’m trying to save money) and that is when the world imploded. Because everyone knows my husband DOES NOT do coupons and WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU MADE US DRIVE ALL THE WAY HERE AND YOU’RE NOT EATING?!
And the poor girl behind the register who makes minimum wage is giggling inside even though she is externally pretending to be merely bewildered by our odd behavior, but I am RESOLUTE. I am not eating and we ARE using a coupon. And suddenly our fun trip out to eat dinner has turned into the trip to hell by way of the Ghoul of Unfettered Emotion, by which we are all being haunted.
And in case you’ve lost track here is exactly why:
1) The little one gets chips and soda with his meal but the older one doesn’t(because the older one must learn early in life that life is not fair, and what better way to learn than in line at Firehouse Subs?)
2) The Dad wanted Imo’s and pajamas, but was trying to mollify the foggy-brained wife who couldn’t make a decision as simple as matching her shoes, and therefore ran everyone around on a wild goose chase.
3) The wife just wanted some veggies, darn it! But fast food restaurants don’t offer them unless they come in a can and she doesn’t eat things from cans because there is nominal nutritional value.
And this is how The Wolfinbarger Family entered into the Twilight Zone episode where everyone is so mad that they turn into werewolves and eat each other. The end.
But seriously. We were angry. And once you get that angry, there are no words that will make it better. Only time and (throwing things while cursing) deep breaths will ensure no one gets hurt. So we drove home in silence while I balanced the meatball subs on my lap because we were too upset to eat at the restaurant in front of people who might silently judge our weirdness. And I was sad. Because I felt like the whole situation was my fault. Why do I have to be so neurotic about food? Why didn’t I plan dinner? Why didn’t I feed my children the corndogs in the freezer? Who cares if they ate corndogs last night? Not them!
And that is when I decided to follow my own advice and practice the discipline of not speaking out of anger. I decided not to break any windows or stomp. I decided to hug my boys and extend grace by way of biting my tongue. I even decided not to get divorced because we couldn’t eat dinner as a family without me eating anything because the minimum wage worker was silently judging us. And do you know what? It was really, REALLY hard. But I did it. And you can too.
Someday there is going to be a moment where you want to lose your cool and explode at the people you love most in the world because somebody left a blue crayon in their pants, and it went through the dryer and now your favorite blouse is sky blue with dark, splotchy patches. And you paid $57.63 for that blouse and you are ticked off. But you are going to look into the bright green eyes of your precious little one and say, “I love the color blue, but you know what? I love you more.”
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