Dinner

Making dinner had been quite a challenge for me now that my son is mobile. He wants undivided attention when we arrive home which is hard to provide when you are elbow deep in raw chicken, eggs or any other salmonella-loving food. The game plan was to cook our meal after he went to bed and immediately wrap up a portion for him to have dinner the next night. The best laid plans don't come to fruition if you are constantly forgetting to defrost the meat ahead of time. Needless to say I've only been successful maybe, at best, a handful of times.

It was suggested that I give Little Man a snack while I make dinner. Little Man doesn't grasp the concept of snack. At least not this close to meal time. I'd offer him a cheese stick. He'd grab the whole package. We'd compromise on two. Then he'd be after the yogurt and from there he'd be reaching for the box of cheerios. By the time dinner was ready, I'd be lucky if I got 2-3 mouthfuls of rice and veggies in him.

I'd contemplated switching it up by giving him dinner in the morning and breakfast when we got home at night. That idea is still on the table.

Tonight I had some success. Upon arrival in our lovely abode, Little Man did his usual Drink Dance routine and then promptly noticed the package of Ritz crackers left on the counter. I decided to try the snack routine. So I give him a cracker. Prep one chicken breast. Scrub my hands. Give him another and prep the next chicken breast. Scrub. Cracker. Scrub. Cracker. Dinner is in the oven. Woo Hoo!

Now I have to distract this kid for the next 45 minutes. Ever try convincing a toddler that OUTSIDE no longer exists? I think I would have better luck convincing Bin Laden that the US is the greatest country on the face of the earth and worthy of his undying devotion. And no, going outside for a short time while dinner cooked was NOT an option. Forget the whole, trying to get him back inside. That's not the issue. The issue is me remembering to go back inside before the chicken cooks itself into a permanent blackened lump in the middle of the pan.

I managed to succeed on all counts and by all counts I mean dinner was NOT a blackened mess. I would have presented myself with a Nobel Prize and launched into the best acceptance speech ever heard in the Universe but Little Man decide enough was enough and you better get that food on my tray NOW WOMAN.

So I plop a 50% made from scratch, fresh-from-the-oven dinner in front of my child and he refuses to eat. Except the dinner rolls. He chose the Pillsbury Dough Boy over my chicken. I scrubbed my hands 50 times while making that damn chicken so he could have his crackers sans salmonella and now he won't eat it.

As a child growing up, if you didn't eat your dinner it was served to you for breakfast the next morning. I think my dad may have been on to something. I'll let you know tomorrow afternoon...