The other night I made roast chicken for supper…ok, to be honest, the chicken was supposed to be for lunch but I misjudged the time it would take to cook. Result – a lovely lunch of mashed potatoes, carrots and peas. The chicken finally decided to stop being pink and we carved it a mere 6 hours later than intended. The Girl and The Boy loved it! I have never seen them eat so much meat at one time. Between them they must have polished off around one third of the poor defenceless bird. Wonderful! I thought. We have finally achieved getting the kids to eat a decent amount of protein and images of strong, healthy teenagers emerged in my head. I was so proud of them.
So the next day I made chicken sandwiches for lunch. What could go wrong? Bread and butter is always eaten and they practically demolished the chicken last night. I proudly presented my darlings with lovingly made chicken sandwiches, confident in receiving a dual chorus of “thanks, Mum, this is great!” Foolish, foolish Mummy. The Girl scrunched up her nose and The Boy instantly began picking my symbol of love and affection in to teeny tiny pieces. Every flake of the chicken was removed from the bread and left in discarded piles at the side of the plates.
If you’re looking for me I’ll be huddled in the corner, rocking gently.
No comments:
Post a Comment