The following is a true account of a night at my house:
6 p.m. – I walk through the door, drop my purse, my laptop bag and my lunch sack (the one with the smelly container from my leftover soup at lunch) onto the kitchen counter.
6:01 p.m. – My two boys run into the kitchen to give me a hug. They’d been playing a video game, which wasn’t allowed.
“Please turn it off,” I asked, nicely.
“BUT MOM,” came the immediate protest.
“Just turn it off,” I implored.
6:02 p.m. – “What’s for dinner?”
“I made chicken. It’s in the Crock Pot.”
6:03 p.m. – I realize I don’t smell the chicken cooking. Usually when I use the slow cooker, the aroma of a finished dinner assaults me the minute I walk in the door.
6:04 p.m. – I touch the side of the Crock Pot, desperately feeling for warmth. Nothing. I look at the LED screen. I hadn’t turned it on that morning. The chicken was not only raw, but now it had been sitting out for 10 hours.
6:05 p.m. – “WELL, DARN IT,” I yelled.
Curt came running into the kitchen at my explanation.
He knocked my laptop off the kitchen counter.
6:06 p.m. – I locked myself in my room for a few minutes to calm down.
6:10 p.m. – I slapped peanut butter and jelly on some whole grain bread (to make myself feel better for serving PB&J for dinner) and called it a meal.
6:30 p.m. – “Hey mom, can we have dessert?”
6:31 p.m. – I walked to the freezer. There, like an oasis in the dessert, was a half gallon of Goldenbrook Farms Rocky Road ice cream.
“How about this?” I asked.
Both boys agreed.
6:35 p.m. – There was silence in my house as the boys ate their ice cream.
6:40 p.m. – “Mom, this is the best ending to the day, ever.”
Note: No children or pets were harmed during the making of this blog post. The computer, however, did not fare as well.