We apparently have needs for things that I do not typically provide. Like bread that is square. And bacon that is not weird (don't worry, it's not bad bacon, its just the bacon pieces and ends from Trader Joe's).
Just days ago, the kids and I found ourselves all home together on their half school day. They come home in time for lunch, a time that I used to love and we would head to the beach for a picnic and a wade and then home all sandy and tottering and sweet. These days, half school days, especially as the end of the school year approaches, are more like a frantic shuttle service provided by me as I ferry children about the city and pick them up all dirty and tottering under their guitars and athletic bags and sweaty. And needing food. Desperately. I love them still. But they do smell worse now. And they may be a little less sweet.
But as we drove home this day, they began waxing poetic about eating out. And reliving the perfect sandwiches of some past lunch time restaurant. I do not judge the sandwich love. I have a song I can sing you about sandwiches and their beauty. And there is one sandwich, a sandwich of such fame and glory and perfection, that I often will tell about, salivating as I remember it. It was delivered to my hospital room in what seems now like rather odd timing, as the way I remember it was that I ordered it on the phone from the menu left for me almost immediately post birth. Maybe the doctors had not left yet? Likely not. But that's a good part of the image.
And this sandwich, post gestational diabetes induced dietary restrictions? Was the BEST. SANDWICH. I. HAVE. EVER. HAD. I just drooled a little bit thinking about it.
We could make yummy sandwiches, I suggested.
Can we stop and get real bread? Someone said from the back of the minivan. I held my tongue. (I do make most of our bread. It is often delicious. But, to be fair, sometimes oddly shaped.)
Can they be club sandwiches? Cut into triangles? With pickles? And toothpicks. And Mommy, club sandwiches have bacon. Do we have to use...your weird bacon?
I careened the minivan into the grocery store lot and the four of us piled out and had the first four person grocery shopping run we have had in ages.
Can we get lettuce? That's clean? And doesn't taste like dirt? asked Nicholas, strangely excited about this possibility.
Supplies selected, we headed home. They actually jumped right into helping me cook, but a few minutes in to trying to cook in a kitchen still uncleaned up after breakfast and I shooed them out.
Can we watch funny YouTube videos while you make lunch? Given the chaos in the car, I was hankering for a few quiet moments before what would likely be a raucous afternoon ahead, so I gave in. I was being Fun Mommy today.
the unfed three
store boughten bread.
shhh. it's my weird bacon.
Mommy! Julia called from the other room. Can you toast the bread? But don't burn it like usual. (It's true).
note to self. the children do not seem to know how to cut with knives.
You may wonder. Just why was I being so lovely? Well, because I just am, of course.
Or, I was hoping to get them all plump enough to throw them in the already hot oven actually. No. I wanted to coax them to go for a kayak ride with me. It's been that kind of week. Weeks. Busy, running around, everyone in different directions. I had plans. And the children are more compliant when well fed.
Turns out, all I had to do, as they settled back into the chairs gasping for breath after licking the pickle juice off their plates, was ask.
They even took charge, so fortified with potato chips were they. Nicholas sent me out in my kayak first and handled the rest of the carrying.
Ah. That's better. And all it took was the perfect sandwich. And pickles and potato chips. And toothpicks. And me holding my tongue.