decaying poo, it's what's for dinner

I never claimed to be a good, or even mediocre, chief.

It was not part of the job requirements set forth in either my marriage vows or the Mommy Code.

This said, this whole blog be 'bout how exceptionally awesome I am in domestic disputes, but this ... ah this was for sure a cross-stitch-it-on-a-pillow moment.  Anyone know how to do that?  I'm not allowed sharp objects.

Scene:  My kitchen.  There are no less than four pans on the stove, three glass bowls (too hot to touch), a spatula covered with some strange green substance, a garbage can filled to the point of dangerous overflow because I am the only person in the house who knows how to empty it, and me.  In the center of the chaos.

Characters: Me and the Meatball.

And the line I want someone to cross stitch into a pillow for me (cuz I also don't know how to do that):

Oh em gee, mom! 

It smells like decaying poo, what on earth is for dinner?!

For the record, my mental playlist at the moment that just barely presided this line of greatness, this pearl of wisdom, from my oldest child probably sounded something like this:

Oh mother of gawd what on earth was I thinking!  

This smells worse than a six day old shit diaper found in the truck of your car.  Mid summer.

Ew, it is sticking to my fingers! Its like cooties, but smells like death.    

  There is no way on earth I will ever get even the dogs to consume this crap!  

What a waste of my time, and the smell will linger, like bad company, for days!

The "crap" in question was steamed and pureed kale.  Kale is a food that us non-meat eaters love, generally.  Me?  Not so much.  I think it has the consistency of leather, and the taste is difficult to describe   It juices fabulously, so I use it all the time in my liquid meals.  But, I was trying to make some for the Beans.  Food issues (a post in and of itself) have long plagued us, and ultimately I have an 18 month old who really has the diet of about a 6 to 8 month old with strict limitations thrown in on top of that.  Breast milk and food purees.  He cannot tolerate store ones for a variety of reasons (also a post in and of itself) so I am relegated to that task of pretending I know what I am doing in the kitchen for him.  Lord help the child.  Generally, it is pretty easy.  Today, not so much.

So after an hour of trying to steam, then boil it to the right degree of softness my house smelled like ass, my kitchen is a disaster, and my oldest is terrified that this is what is for his dinner.

While this is humorous, it also suggests that his faith in me is so low that he worries I will serve this ...

... for dinner someday.

I think fear is a healthy thing in children.