Noodle

Something so simple as serving a meal has become a perilous adventure, filled with pitfalls and a level of stress that must be on par with the NASA control center. Before children, there were two questions:

1. 1. Eat in or Out?
1. 2. What are we hungry for?

Now neither of those questions cross my mind. Forget about taking these little people out to eat. I won't impose that on anyone. And if I only fed them what they were hungry for, they'd live on cereal, juice and pop-tarts.

The effort now is coordinated.

1. Give them a little snack while I'm cooking. Not too much but enough to keep the whining from starting.
2. Don't let them see what I'm actually making. Avoid at all costs the dreaded question, "What are we having for dinner?"
3. Get Ellie up off the floor and out of the way. She can start eating first. She'll also start throwing food on the floor, so that will occupy Benett. (And technically could qualify as his snack.)
4. Get the glasses filled with milk. But don't let them see you doing it, or they'll want to pick the 'right' colored glass. (Why do they always choose the color that's dirty?)
5. Make sure the glasses stay far enough away from the edge of the table.
6. Dish up Benett's plate first, so it can start to cool.
7. Gavin is next, but don't let his chair get too close to Benett's. (Apparently that's just cause for a fight.)
8. Don't try to sit down. At that precise moment, they'll need you to get them something.

When everyone is done eating, there's a feeling of accomplishment. (Or defeat. But that is directly associated to the number of vegetables included in the meal.) There is also a feeling of wonder. How on earth does a noodle get stuck in one's neck? How can pieces of chicken end up behind the ear? And why - why - does the stickiest part of the meal always wind up in the hair?