Hasn’t Had a Hot Meal in Fifteen Years

I have officially become the mother from A Christmas Story. Serving my sweet child her dinner: 

“Mom, the buttons on this dress are going up my butt.” 

Take it off. 

“Can you do it?”

*washes hands/leaves kitchen/unzips dress/walks back to kitchen*

“Mom, can you get me something to wear? I am freezing.”

I think you can do that. *attempts to prepare own dinner*

“Mom. This tag is killing me. Cut it out.” 

You’ve worn that shirt a thousand times.

“Cut. It . OUT.”

Can you say ‘please?’

“Please?”

*washes hands/leaves kitchen/grabs scissors/cuts out tag/walks back to kitchen*

“Mom, can I have more water? And I need a napkin.” 

*washes hands/leaves kitchen/grabs cup/refills water/grabs napkin/delivers/heads back to kitchen*

I am glad you’re eating all your cucumbers, but don’t forget to eat your spaghetti.

“I won’t.” 

*heads back to kitchen*

“Mom, can you get me some ham?”

*washes hands/gets ham/slices ham/serves ham/heads back to kitchen*

“Mom, I dropped some spaghetti.*

*washes hands/stuffs face full of bowl of spaghetti/gives up*

 

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