You’d think by now I’d have learned my lesson by now. You’d think that because I’m the adult, I’m making the decisions. And yet once again, here we are, and all I can do is shake my head.
Foolishly, I sometimes ask the girls what they’d like for lunch, often giving them a choice between different sandwich choices or chicken nuggets vs. hot dogs. Today, though, I just couldn’t even wrap my mind around all the choice left overs in the fridge and asked them flat out, “What do you want for lunch?”
Morgan, just as sweet as you please, asked for tuna fish and chips. Done and done. Coever asked for grilled cheese. What? Whose child is this? Certainly not mine. We don’t eat grilled cheese in this house. Let me re-phrase, I don’t eat grilled cheese, and if the numero uno, executive chef ain’t eatin’ it, it ain’t gettin’ made. But of course, Coever looked at me with those Bambi eyes and saw this. . .
I got busy making grilled cheese.
For someone who doesn’t eat it, I sure put a lot of thought and love into this thing. I toasted the Oat Nut bread, which, by the by, if you haven’t had the Oat Nut bread, do yourself a favor and get it. It’s beyond good. It’s like a hug in your mouth. But I digress.
I toasted the bread, I spread it with butter — I think I read that’s what you do when you make grilled cheese. I shaved — yes, you read correctly, I shaved off several layers of cheddar cheese from this hunk o’ cheddar we had in the fridge. I laid the thinly sliced cheese over the buttery- oat-nutty-bready goodness and threw another layer of bread on top. I wrapped that mamma jamma up in some foil, fired up the iron and commenced to press it to death.
Coever wove in between and around my legs, chanting, “Is that my grilled cheese, Mom? Is that my grilled cheese?” I half expected her to break out in song and dance like Bill Cosby’s kids when they had chocolate cake for breakfast.
I unwrapped the sandwich, placing it on her plate with some orange slices, and some chips. By now, the girls were in the living room, looking at library books, so I called them to the table. They seated themselves just as I placed their plates in front of them.
“Thanks, Mommy,” said Morgan, taking a monstrous bite of her tuna fish. Mmmm, oat nut bread.
I go back to the kitchen to fetch (yes, I’m from the Mo-tea-suh tribe) the girls’ drinks, when I hear Coever ask, “What dis, Mom?” She’s picking up her sandwich between two fingers, “Is dis my grilled cheese?”
“Yes, Coever,” I begin, seeing that she’s somehow managed to shove the orange slices and the chips down her throat. “That’s the sandwich you asked for.” In my head, I’m thinking, “Oh no. She better not even think about it.”
“I don’t like grilled cheese,” she wrinkles up her nose and lets the sandwich fall back onto the plate.
Of course. . .
Hi, my name is Hilary with one “l” and I’ve been duped by my two year old.
Again.
