In a perfectly choreographed series of motions — it was beautiful, really, the synchronicity of it all, the stuff that replays are made of — dinner, in all its glory, came crashing down.
Literally. Oh, so literally.
You would think that for all the watching of the Food Network that my kids do, they would know that the number 1 rule in the kitchen is DON’T WALK BEHIND THE CHEF!
Mom spins around with a plate full of food. Kid magically appears out of nowhere behind me. And in that split second, plate connects with kid’s forehead. Mom drops plate. Much crying and yelling ensues.
And then…it happens.
Mom drops the F-bomb in front of the kids for the first time.
Now, I’m pretty sure they didn’t notice because I was in a blind rage, arms waving around like a lunatic, but, it’s out there. I lost my f***ing shit. Because I’m just so goddamned tired of goddamned stuff getting broken. Never mind the kid got bonked on the noggin. Never mind he apologized through the hiccups and tears.
We are down to five dinner plates in our set of eight. Do the math: we are a family of six. So I guess one of us ain’t eating. This is parenting in all its glory, folks. The no-frills, unabridged version, full of batshit crazy dinner drama.
But it’s also the kind of parenting where you buy an extra set of dishes; because Mom may lose her shit, but she ain’t gonna miss dinner.