I have been trying to reach this keyboard for a few days now so I could write a proper post but every time I roll up my sleeves and aim my tuchas at the roll-y chair, someone yells, "Ma, I'm hungry!"
Like Pavlov's dogs were conditioned to drool, I drop everything as if it were on fire and tumble towards the fridge...the stove...the kitchen because, to this day, I cannot resist those words if uttered by my babies.
I, literally, fear that if I do not feed them immediately, they will starve to death.
My mother and her mother before her -- and I can only imagine the line of ancestors dating back to cave women wearing fur aprons and anxious expressions -- operated on this very same premise with their own children.
Why would I be any different?
It might be noted here that since I have no daughters this behavior may come to a screeching halt once I have grilled my last cheese sandwich or flipped my final pancake but until then, on my watch--you EAT.
|Garanimals--the clothes that always match|
And, boy oh boy, they are always hungry.
No longer growing bunnies but large adult males, they still seem to eat as they did in the days when they'd head off to bed in one size of Garanimals and wake up the following morning needing a larger size.
And, with the exception of when they creep into my bedroom in the middle of the night and wake me from a dream in which I am trimming Tom Selleck's mustache with my teeth in order to make them a sandwich, I love every minute of it.
It's not all food prep. There's noise: debating, ranting, singing, laughing, comedy, nonsensical blathering, burping, sniveling, threatening, meowing, an occasional fight complete with running and pummeling as well as huge sneakers strategically placed in spots to maximize unexpected tripping and falling by me.
|Tom, when he's hungry.|
You'd think they'd want to make sure I remain healthy and ambulatory since I am the meal hobbit but they've explained that the sneakers are their way of keeping me alert. They are so thoughtful.
When the boys aren't here (which is most of the time), Seth and I rarely speak to one another other than when participating in the puppet shows starring the little wooden boys we dress in the kid's old clothes. So, you can imagine our joy when they're here consuming everything in their path like voracious locusts, monopolizing the television with sports and clapping their little hands when I do a somersault in the hall as I careen to a new injury after tripping on their shoes.
|Charlie prefers the use of irony when hungry.|
And since a steady stream of snacks, treats, tidbits, sandwiches and edible doodads fuel all this activity, I am more than pleased to be the lady standing vigilantly at the cutting board.