The veggies are chopped and sauteing on the stove. I turn down the heat, put the lid on (as I want them to soften up a bit), and head out to pick some green onions out of the garden.
(Seems like such a nice start to the story doesn't it? You can almost smell the beginnings of the Italian feast I was preparing my family for dinner.)
Before I step out I hear Ty: "Mom! Can you come start my water?" I run upstairs, turn on the water for Ty's shower, then out to the garage where I slipped out of my comfy old-man-houseshoe-wanna-be shoes (love these shoes!) and into my rubber rain boots. I walk past the basil I planted day before yesterday. It's looking good. It's been raining non-stop since I planted them, so I was hoping they hadn't drowned, they hadn't. On to the other side of the house to get the onions. I harvest my onions and while I was there took a peek at the garlic planted right beside the onions. It was looking good to. Pleased I was. Back around and in through the garage with three green onions. Upon walking in I immediately notice the smell. It was the veggies. Not the aroma I'd hoped to walk into. It was more of a... well, burnt sort of smell.
I quickly tended to the pan. We'll still eat them. I wouldn't serve them to company, mind you, but my people are used to eating "blacked" food. Especially broccoli. I specialize in blackened broccoli.
After getting the veggies under control, I begin to chop the onions. Then I look out the window. It was Austin. Austin. Out the window. In the mud. It's rained so much around here Jack told his Dad that he thought there was going to be a flood.
I'm sure he's not wearing shoes. Two-year-olds never remember to put on shoes before they go outside. Come to think of it, none of the kids around here remember to put on shoes before going outside. He needs to come in. I throw the onions in the pan, wipe off my hands, then walk around to the back door to call him in.
Oh. I was wrong. He did remember shoes.
My man house shoes.
My favorite shoes.
Yes, those shoes.
Thanks for that Austin.
I get him in, wash his feet, then back to the kitchen.
My onion has burnt.
Pasta goes in the pot.
I set the timer for the pasta (yes, looking for a little credit here). I'm about to start on the alfredo sauce when I hear a scream well, maybe more a shriek. No, probably just screaming. At first I can't figure out where it's coming from or who is doing it. It's not a normal sound anyone around here makes. Most screams are playful. This one wasn't. I think the best way I could describe it was a "scream bloody murder" scream. It was Ty. Upstairs in the shower. I sprint up there again. He's gotten soap in his eyes. I think it was only the second time in his life this has happened, so it really threw him for a loop.
I get his eyes rinsed out and dried off and wrapped in a towel. I tell him he's got to handle himself cause I'm in the middle of cooking. He comes down few minutes later. His poor eyes were all red.
The pasta (angel hair) which only needed to cook 2 minutes is now beyond done.
As if on cue, Brady toddles up to me. He grabs my legs and cries.
"Jack!! Come get your brother!" Jack pretends not to hear.
Based on the above evidence I conclude that the children are trying to ruin dinner. Every night it's the same thing. I think they get together first thing in the morning and plan their attack on dinner. I can just hear this mornings meeting:
"Alright, here's the plan:
Ty, you ask to get a shower as soon as you see Mom step into the kitchen.
Austin, go outside in whatever non-waterproof shoes you can find.
Ty, after Austin gets captured see what else you can do to cause a commotion. I'll send Brady in at the end and he'll cry and fuss I'm sure of it."
Why would they do this? Seems like a lot of trouble just to eat a bad dinner. Well, I'll tell you why. Three words: Pizza and Mac-and-cheese
It's not too far fetched. I'm pretty sure they'd do anything to get Mom to give up on cooking and feed them a diet strictly of carbs and cheese.
Let me tell you something boys. It ain't gonna work. If you continue to attack me when cooking dinner, I'll be forced to retaliate. No, I don't mean turn on a TV show while I cook. I mean strap you in your car seats in the living room till the food's ready.
Think I'm kidding?