“I don’t want to get drunk!” Tommy shrieked.
Let’s back up a couple of hours before Tommy’s statement was uttered.
It was Sunday. Easter. And I was in charge of making Easter dinner. On my own. I made it easy for myself and got a ham steak, instead of a regular ham. Ham steaks are safe.
Then I decided to make mashed potatoes, a sweet potato casserole (from a box, I’m not that bold), devilled eggs, corn, and rolls.
Here’s the thing though: I don’t like making multiple things at once. It tends to overwhelm me. I generally make simple foods…Hamburger Helper, Sloppy Joes, spaghetti...
Proof that my kids are used to simple stuff?
When I was mashing the potatoes, Tommy blinked and went, “Where’s the box?”
I usually make mashed potatoes from a box, you see.
I was in the middle of mashing potatoes, flipping the ham steak, stirring the corn and then I heard a beeping noise.
“What is that racket?” I shouted. I was already overwhelmed and had dried potato on my nose.
“The oven,” Tommy called out.
Oh. Right. The sweet potato casserole.
I was in the middle of tending to the ham steak when I heard a splash...crap, the corn had boiled over.
I went to deal with that and then I smelt something burning.
And realized I forgot the rolls in the oven.
“Shit!” I bellowed. I yanked open the oven and reached in to grab the rolls…without an oven mitt. “SHIT!” My arm recoiled and I took a few steps back. An abandoned Easter egg got caught under my foot so I went sprawling to the ground. “I hate cooking,” I sniffled onto the floor that desperately needed to be mopped. What in the WORLD was that dark spot by my nose?
“Yay, we’re playing!” Natalie shouted, running in. She immediately dropped to the ground.
“I’m not playing,” I insisted, rising to my feet.
“Awww,” Natalie pouted.
I took the rolls out (with a mitt this time) and ran my burnt hand under the cold water. After my hand felt semi-normal again, I prepared the kid’s plates. I brought them out to the table, where my children waited. It would have been nice had they clapped when I walked out. I mean, I had slaved in the kitchen for hours. More like one hour, but still. Instead they blinked at me and when I set Tommy’s plate in front of him, he yelped, “It’s ORANGE!” and started gagging.
“Tommy, it’s sweet potatoes. You ate them all the time as a baby,” I explained.
“It’s ORANNGEEEE!” He turned pale. Tommy can be sensitive to foods.
“Fine, Tommy,” I said, sliding his offensive sweet potatoes on my plate. Then I went into the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of sparkling Apple Cider. “I got a special drink for us!”
I expected the kids to oooo and ahhh.
Instead Tommy went, “Is there alcohol in that?”
“No, it’s juice,” I explained through clenched teeth. I was about ready to lose my temper.
And now let’s fast forward to the beginning of the post.
To when Tommy shrieked, “I don’t want to get drunk!” Thank you, police officers who visited Tommy’s school and discussed alcohol and drugs. Or, if I’m being perfectly honest, Homer Simpson.
“You won’t get drunk Tommy BECAUSE THERE IS NO ALCOHOL in this,” I insisted.
“In school we were told to alert an adult if someone tried to offer us alcohol,” Tommy continued primly. “Alcohol is bad.”
Well, not when you need it at night after a hard day with two ungrateful children…
Obviously I couldn’t say this though.
“Alcohol is bad,” I confirmed. “You aren’t allowed to have any until you are 21 and even then, I’d prefer you not to ever get drunk.”
“Have you been drunk before?” Tommy wondered.
“Tommy, this is Easter. That’s not appropriate.” (As it wouldn’t have been appropriate to reply, “Yes. Lots.” ) I opened the apple cider and poured some in our special glasses. Natalie immediately took a sip.
“I like it!” she yelled. It would turn out the drink would be the only thing she liked.
Tommy took his glass and sniffed it. It was like he didn’t believe me. I sincerely hope when his teacher asked all the kids what they had for Easter dinner, that Tommy didn’t say, “Ham. And alcohol.”
“It’s not alcohol!” I snapped again. I was about ready to pour the non-alcoholic liquid over Tommy’s head.
Tommy took a tentative sip. He swished it around his mouth. Then he swallowed and went, “I don’t like it. Too spicy.”
As I said, Tommy is sensitive to foods. It’s why he doesn’t ever drink soda. Thanks to the fizzy bubbles, he insists that it’s too spicy for him. And since the apple cider was bubbly, I could see why he didn’t care for it.
After the drink drama, I started to eat. Everything was edible.
Next year, however, I hope we’re rich enough to be able to afford a cook on Easter.
Or if not, perhaps we’ll just go out to eat.