I like food. I like to eat. I like to sit down and enjoy my food, while it’s still hot, preferably within the same hour that it has been prepared. As of late, however, I’ve found that in order to do this, I need to eat alone. All alone.

What happens is I make breakfast,lunch or dinner for the girls and invariably, despite my best attempts to the otherwise, my own meal is forsaken. This morning, for example, I got up, got the kitchen cleaned up, got breakfast on the table for the girls. Like I said, I like my food still hot, so I waited until I had the girls seated and doing their own thing before I depressed the button on the toaster. I fix my toast, my fruit, my yogurt and sit down. Mo shoots up and says she needs to poop (nice breakfast convo) and I need to wipe her. Okay. . . .

Hands washed, back to the table. Co has inhaled her milk and is making the ASL sign for “more” and “milk” as she chants “Mo’ muck” over and over again. Up to the fridge to get the milk. Now, usually, I will implore her to eat what is on her plate before I refill the drinks, but surprisingly, she’s already eaten everything. So, “mo’ muck” it is. Pour the milk, carton in the fridge, back to my seat. Mo now says, “I want more Cheerios, Mommy,” to which I reply, “I want some manners, Mo”. A quick “please” follows and I direct her to where the Cheerios are in the pantry. They are right at Mo level. I figure she can grab the box and bring it to the table. Yeah, not so much. Big box with pictures of Cheerios on it and she says, “I don’t see it. I think you need to go to the store and buy some more.”

Riiiiiiiiiiight. So, up to the pantry to get the Cheerios. Note to self — going forward, just put the box on the table.

At this point, Co is turning several shades of scarlet as she works out her daily constitutional. She’s been having some explosive poops as of late and I definitely do not want to deal with another rash, so I whisk her upstairs and change her diaper.

Back downstairs, where Mo proclaims that she is finished with breakfast. I look down at my own plate. My toast is now cold and soggy due to the abundance of spray butter and grape jelly. My fruit has started ferment and my yogurt is a warm, milky soup. This will not do.

So, either I get a better handle on the morning routine — which, seeing as I already thought I did may prove impossible — or I eat before they get up. But, at 5:30am, I’m barely able to get my first or many 8 ounces of water down my throat let alone some scrambled eggs and bacon.

Mmmmmm. . . . .bacon . . . .

Oh, where was I? I have started snacking throughout the morning on grapes and sliced apples so that when lunch time hits, I’m not about to go ape-shit (seriously) over lack of sustenance. When the girls have lunch, usually around 12:30 or 1pm, I slug back more water. I put them down for their naps at about 2pm and then tuck into the lunch that I made earlier in the day. Yes, proper prior planning people! In the interest of better health and because of these hard economic times, I have been faithfully brown-bagging it. But I digress. Lunch is usually a cold lunch of a sandwich and some pretzels and fruit or something, but it’s one where once I sit down, I’m down until I’m done.

My most favorite-est meal, though, is dinner. It’s the end of the day, there’s usually a glass of wine (or three) involved and bedtime is near. But, because I enjoy dinner so much, even if my stomach is touching my back, I will feed the girls, bathe the girls, read several books and do several prayers so that I don’t have to re-heat my plate so much the broccoli is now the color of cauliflower and the consistency of wall paper paste.

More often than not,the girls and I make quite a fetching threesome at the dinner table. Mo has always enjoyed helping Co get into the Clean Plate Club, and they usually end up swapping items on their plates such that whatever it is, it gets eaten. Even when they turn their noses up at a dish and say, “I don’t like it”, they still take several courtesy bites (I cook it, you taste it, I insist), often surprising themselves with how much in fact they do like it. We make airplane sounds to get veggies into Co’s mouth, we pretend to be lions and tigers as we bite into spare ribs, we make the most dreadful slurping noises as spaghetti noodles whip us on our cheeks and noses while we suck it into our mouths.

I’ve come to realize that while there will be times a table for one is all that is keeping me from checking into the funny farm, my meal is way more enjoyable when there’s someone there to share it.

Oh, and any ice cream or chocolate based dessert that follows doesn’t hurt either.

Diana Prince has Wonder Woman. Selena Kyle has Catwoman. Me? I have Rhonda.

And in case you can’t read that ultra-fine fine print for this feminine rejuvenation cream, it says,

You know the old saying, “It’s like riding a bike. You never forget.” Evidently that adage doesn’t apply to all childhood activities, particularly board games.

Mo and I were playing a board game this afternoon, one that I specifically bought to entertain her and the babysitter for those times I have to pop out for an evening. So last night, I had to go out, and I whipped out the game for them to play. Mind you, this is a game that she had never seen before and just learned how to play last night. I guess she and the babysitter worked on strategy and technique until bedtime, and Mo went to bed with visions of board game domination in her head.

First thing this morning, she demanded we play at breakfast. I assured her that we would indeed play, but give Mommy a second to inhale Sanka, y’know? She summarily forgot amidst our routine of getting ready and our crazed schedule of activities. With the promise of breaking out the game after naps, she and Co went down for some quality quiet time.

A little history note here — this game that we ended up playing is one that I used to play avidly as a pig-tail sporting tyke. I figured that it hasn’t change so much in the 20 plus years it’s been since I played. I now know that several versions of this game have been released in the interim and things have changed indeed, namely my claim as champion in this battle of wills.

Mo just beat me at Candyland. Twice.

According to Dictionary.Com a tattletale is defined as

– noun
1. a talebearer or informer, esp. among children (see image below)

– adjective
2. telltale; revealing: a tattletale smear of lipstick on his collar.

Seriously. Mo is a world-class tattler. She approaches it like it’s her job, and I guess, when you are 3 1/2 years old, that’s what your job is. Sunup to sundown, day in and day out, nothing is too lofty or too lowly that does not get snitched back to me.

I know who isn’t sharing and who isn’t. I know who didn’t wash their hands after using the bathroom and who broke wind without saying excuse me. I know who is putting crayons in their mouth and who has their fingers in their nose. Children and grown-ups alike — there has never been a better case for minding your manners when Mo Dizz is in town.

Mo’s favorite subject to snitch on is, of course, her sister. Oh, the tattles I get about what Co is or isn’t doing at any particular minute. And they usually start like this:

Mo: Um, excuse me, Mommy?

Me: Yes, Mo. What is it?

Mo: Um, well, Co isn’t. . .

Me: (interrupting) Wait a second. Are you about to tattle?

Mo: Well. No. Excuse me Mommy. I have to tell you something.

Me: Oh really?

Mo: Well. . .I’ll be right back.

And off she goes to keep tabs on whomever else is in close proximity. On the one hand, I want her to know that she can come and tell me things, especially if she, Co, or their friends are doing something dangerous. But on the other hand, most of her updates are for minor things that, while irritating (like when Co dumps all the crayons on the floor), aren’t earth shattering. So, how do we deal with this?

I’ve told Mo that there are some things she needs to speak up about — knives, matches, sticking your fingers in outlets, pushing and shoving, etc. — and somethings that are better left unsaid. I’ve also told her that if she and Co are getting into it, they need to try to work it out before she comes to lay her tale of sisterly injustice at my feet.

So now, here’s what we get:

Mo: Um, excuse me, Mommy? I have to tell you something.

Me: Yes, Mo.

Mo: Um, well. . .

Me: You aren’t going to tattle now, are you?

Mo: Well. No, but Mommy, somebody isn’t sharing the crayons with me.

She is really making me earn this Mother of the Year award.