On Strike

I have decided to go on strike.

Let me start by saying that I absolutely, positively, unequivocally abhor cooking.

I would rather do almost anything other than cooking. Once, Diminutive One asked me if I ever make cakes and cookies and stuff just for fun. I don't bake, you see. And he, being a connoisseur of all things baked, finds this unacceptable.

"Diminutive One my dear, I find 'fun' and 'cooking' to be a contradiction in terms."

"Huh?"

"What I mean is, I don't find cooking fun."

"You don't?"

"No. I don't like it at all."

"But...you do it all the time."

"Yep."

I could see that his wheels were turning. He is a smart kid and certainly not inclined to let an opportunity go unexploited.

"Well, why don't you just ask Dad to pick up dinner on his way home? Then you wouldn't have to cook stuff."

"From where?"

He shrugged with exaggerated nonchalance. He was onto something, but he didn't want to give away his eagerness and blow the sale.

"I don't know....there's McDonald's, Burger King, Sonic, Zaxby's. We could have something different every night. It would be great!"

"Well, not cooking would be wonderful. But it wouldn't be healthy for us to eat that stuff every night. It's my job to provide you guys with nutritious food. So I do it because it's part of taking good care of you."

He was noticeably crestfallen. Aside from being a lover of baked goods, Diminutive One is a junk food junkie. And if it isn't fried, frenched, pattied or fingered, it's simply not worth eating.

Pre-Pubescent One is a much more adventurous eater and I don't have to worry much about what he eats. But it's how and when he eats that presents a problem. At his school, they must eat in shifts. His lunch period begins at 11:30. They have 20 minutes to eat, which includes the time they must wait in line for hot lunch. He often has to bolt his food and doesn't finish all of his meal. And then, he doesnt' get off the bus until 4:45.

A hastily eaten early lunch, combined with a raging metabolism, means he is always STARVING when he walks in the door. Unless I have supper ready at that very moment, he is mewling with hunger. And of course, I allow him have a snack. Because a Mom reacts to a child's hunger with an age old urgency. It pains a mother not to feed a hungry child.

As a result, he often is not hungry at dinner time and merely picks at his food. But guess what happens if he doesn't eat dinner? And hour later, he is STARVING again.

This is all very frustrating for me.

Although I hate cooking, I am actually pretty good at it, and I manage to provide what I think, are reasonably nutritious and fairly delicious meals. Admittedly, I do sometimes give in to the seductive simplicity of corn dogs, sloppy joes and frozen pizza. But I try to make those occurances infrequent.

So I spend a lot of time doing something I loathe, because I feel that it's part of my responsibility as a mother, and because it's good for my family.

The fact that it goes entirely unappreciated is sometimes a little tough to take.

Last night I made a pretty pedestrian meal of meatloaf, mashed potatoes, corn and spinach (corn for the kids, spinach for Husband and me). These are all foods that have met with approval and even enthusiasm on previous occasions, so I really wasn't prepared for the battle that ensued.

My children behaved as if I was trying to feed them toxic waste. They moaned, they groaned, they wheedled and they whined. Diminutive One emphatically stated exactly what he would eat and what he would not. Pre-Pubescent One complained that he wasn't hungry because he had a snack. They both pushed their food around their plate and insisted that they had eaten.

Then they began to bargain, telling me they would eat, but only if.

That's when I lost my temper.

"You know what? I'm not cooking anymore. Do you guys know how much I hate cooking? I HATE it. And I spend a lot of time doing it because it's my job and I care about you having nutritious food to eat. But nobody seems to give a shit. And I'm sick and tired of spending hours preparing a meal only to listen to you two ungrateful little brats whine and complain. I'm done. You can feed yourselves from now on."

I left the table and went to my room. Stunned silence followed me up the stairs. They realized that I was well and truly pissed off.

When I came down, the table was cleared, the dishes put away, and the kitchen tidy. Husband had made them eat every. single. bite. and then clean up. They both came to me shamefacedly and apologized. I apologized for saying hurtful things.

They felt better. I did not.

Because the problem isn't solved. Although losing my temper might have been cathartic, in the long term, it wasn't terribly constructive.

I need to take action.

So tonight, my children will likely be eating peanut butter sandwiches of their own making.

I'm not kidding.

Not even a little.

Did you ever see that movie "Failure to Launch?" It's the cinematic realization of my worst nightmare.

I will raise self-sufficient children, dammit. And I will not foist upon the world husbands who expect their wives to parent them. I will not beleaguer those poor someday women with men who insist that their mothers were the very essence of domesticity and servility.

Will it work? Hell, I don't know. But it's better than nothing, right?

At the very least, I'll get the evening off.