Why I Went on Strike from Motherhood this Morning?

     This morning, I slept in. I did not slide my lethargic body out of bed with my alarm at 6 a.m. I shut it down and half an hour later, I opened both my son's doors and told them I was on strike. I calmly informed them that they would be responsible for getting up and dressed, feeding themselves breakfast, making their lunch, filling their water bottles, brushing their teeth, and making sure we were out the door on time. I them went back to bed, ignoring the wail of protests chasing me into my room.
     Now, despite a serious need for coffee this morning same as any morning, I did not wake up in a bad mood and a Disneynesque evil-stepmother desire to torture my kids and make them my little slaves. I woke and went back to bed with the purpose of teaching a lesson. My sons needed to see how much I do and stop taking advantage of my mothering them.
     This does not mean I will stop cleaning and caring for them. I know what I signed up for when I saw that frisky gleam in my husband's eye nine-years ago and decided to have children. I am currently doing their laundry and have done the dishes and will pick them up at the bus stop, feed them dinner, and take them to soccer practice. I am just asking them to do their share in this social contract of being a family and not treating me as their maid and cook. Plus, I am teaching them skills and responsibility.
     I believe in our desire to be kind and attentive to our kids and make their lives special, we over do it. And we short-change them out of necessary life skills. Because honestly are we being kind if in the long run, we send kids out to college or real life without the ability to manage their time, clean, feed themselves, and remember their own belongings. Isn't this why colleges are now offering adulting classes for teens whose parents "kinded" them into a helpless state. And isn't our job as parents to make them self-sufficient, empathetic, and kind adults. I feel like I owe that to them, society, and the world - to produce a decent human being, not an entitled little brat.
     My kids are quite capable of getting themselves ready for school, something I had to do every day since age eight as my mom was already at work by the time I left for the day. It's just that my kids act helpless because I do it for them. Remember, necessity is the mother of invention. So while my oldest son screamed from the kitchen that he couldn't peel the ham apart for his sandwich, after a few minutes of ignoring him, he figured it out. And my youngest discovered that if he placed the step stool near the fridge, he could reach the mayo.
     I also made my oldest responsible for getting his poky younger brother up and out the door. Consequently, he discovered the fun of being a nag and learned how annoying it is when no one listens to you and makes you repeat things over and over.
     So while they learned about the duties of motherhood, I played the part of child. I had to be coaxed out of bed. Then I took my leisurely time getting my coffee and playing with my phone, enjoying the simple pleasures, basically being them.
     See this all began last night after a sweet cuddle watching the Little Prince when I discovered that my oldest had been hiding half-sucked cherry sours in my bathroom and under the bedside table and my youngest had ignored my request to pick up his desk and put his clothes away. They both said sorry hoping that would amend all wrongs and informed me that they were too tired to do anything. In turn, I told them I was tired too after cooking, cleaning, and taking care of the house and life while they sat and watched their shows on the television or played video games or read. Things I don't get to do until they are finally in bed for the night, something usually delayed repeatedly by my youngest. So I too didn't have the energy to clean up their messes after a long day and wanted to rest, like they were doing. I told them they could clean up after school. Of course, a loud roar of protest could be heard miles away as they both wailed and gnashed their teeth, declaring that they wanted to play after school. That life was unfair and why did they have to do everything. And that was the straw that broke the camel's back.
     Instead of continuing to waste my breath and energy, I'd show them what doing everything looked like. And that is why I went on strike from motherhood this morning.

My Kids Killed My Joy of Cooking

     Once upon a long time ago, I actually loved to cook. I was inventive, throwing in spices at will and trying new combinations of food. It found joy standing over a hot stove, my face bathed in a glow from the condensation of a boiling pot of water. Cooking was an adventure, a delicious challenge, and a labor of love with a successful outcome. Time, availability of ingredients, and my own burgeoning skills were just obstacles to overcome and learn from.
     For instance, as a poor college student I learned that adding, cheese, garlic, and spices made cheap food taste so much better. I mean, unless you are lactose intolerant, cheese is like the panacea to a bad day. It just wraps you up in its melty goodness or eases your pain when sliced on a cracker, even an off-brand Saltine.
    Cooking also became a social event for me when I lived in Dublin studying my Masters. I spent many happy hours in the kitchen with my international cadre of friends teaching them to make Americanized Mexican food and stir-fry. They in turn taught me to make German pancakes, Apple Strudel, Irish soda bread, curries, and so many other fun dishes. We would dice onions together crying into our glasses of cheap wine and singing Abba songs and dancing around the narrow kitchen. Cooking was joyous and so was our appreciation of the food.
     Then, back in the States and living in San Diego, I became master of the grill. My margarita lime chicken tickled the taste buds. I became obsessed with grilled bell peppers and onions. I loved cooking for my friends.
     Skip ahead, twelve years and I'd honestly rather stick needles up my fingernails than cook dinner for my family. And usually, I don't have to. My husband, an avid Food Network Foodie is an excellent cook. Of course, his idea of dinner is a slab of meat, and I have to remind him to add a vegetable side dish. But this is a small price to pay for a perfect steak.
     But on the days he gets busy or just doesn't feel like it. I am stuck with dinner duty leaving me in a full-scale panic attack and crying over my computer as I scan recipe after recipe on Yummy trying vainly to find something my kids will eat. My oldest son is king of the bland and screeches like a howler monkey being swung by its tail if I dare to add sauce to anything. We still can't convince him that marina sauce on spaghetti is the same stuff they put on his beloved pizza. He will only eat cheese if its on said pizza or shredded on the side of his taco. And no foods can touch - ever! He even cried the first time we tried to give him ice cream. Seriously!
     My youngest actually has quite a sophisticated palate and is a regular at the tasting counter at Trader Joe's often scoring extra samples of Port Wine Cheese of Brie. However, his heightened sense of taste demands variety. He'd do well eating tapas every night or going to a Casino buffet. He likes little bites of everything but never finishes anything. He often declares himself too full to finish dinner, but is ravenous for something else two seconds later. Usually, I find him scouring the pantry and fridge lamenting that there is nothing to eat. Which translates to nothing he's in the mood for. I can hardly get him to eat breakfast and have told his teachers that I attempt to feed him in the morning so don't feel sorry for him when he complains that he's starving at nine. He had his chance.
     Now I know these are common complaints. I see the battle-hardened Facebook posts of my fellow sisters-in-arms complaining about their kids throwing epic tantrums over a nutritious, long-labored over meal. I feel your pain and send you cyber hugs and recommendations that you find a good wine or beer to drown your sorrows in. Also, a good Netflix series. Outlander and Meomi wine after the kids are bed or a Moscow Mule and The Night Manager or My Crazy Ex-Girlfriend and a Shocktop will help ease the pain. Your kids being a butt over dinner will dissipate with the sight off a firmer, tighter Scottish backside.
     I also hear all your wise advice to just not give in with the corn dogs and chicken nuggets. Let them go hungry. Make them try new things. And I hear you. I have told my kids to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich when they complain about my chicken tikka masala.
     But I am weak and there are some nights after already battling over homework, computer time, cleaning up, and a million other kid/parent conflicts that I am exhausted by dinner time and the thought of another battle makes me ill.
     This too shall pass and some day I may find my joie de vivre in the kitchen again. But when my oldest tells me he will "suffer through" the healthy and delicious chicken and pasta I made, my soul dies a little.
     I miss when cooking was fun. An adventure in taste and exploration of new recipes. I miss watching people enjoy my endeavors. After spending a half-hour chopping vegetables till my hands smelt like garlic and bore indentations on my index finger where the pairing knife pressed in to my skin, I felt rewarded by the yummy sounds people made and the scrape of the fork getting every last bite. Now I have to threaten and cajole little people to have two more bites of broccoli or half their chicken teriyaki. It's completely exhausting and deflating.
     Like the rest of the mommas out there, I will persevere. After all, I have to feed them.  And a friend gave me a helpful suggestion that I plan to try out the next time one of my darling sons complains about my cuisine. Whoever complains must be the next chef, and I get to critique their efforts. Let's hope it works.
     Thanks for letting me vent. I know I'm preaching to the choir. But it feels good to get it off my chest.