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Broke Wife, Big City
The Great
Grilled Cheese Meltdown of 2017
By Aprill Brandon
Maybe it was because my husband has been swamped with work lately. Or
maybe it was because we couldn’t find a babysitter so I could join him
at a company Christmas party for a few glorious kid-free hours. Or
hell, maybe because it was Tuesday...I think it was Tuesday...but
really it doesn’t matter if it WAS Tuesday because the demands of
motherhood never, ever stop, making the very concept of time
irrelevant. And the concept of death, for that matter, since I can
guarantee the kids will only visit my tombstone to ask me to refill
their sippy cups and can I help them find their Batman toy?
But regardless of the reason, I had a meltdown over a grilled cheese
sandwich. A flip out over the flipping of a sandwich. An existential
crisis over an extraordinarily mundane dinner.
It was all the pan’s fault. That stupid non-stick sticky pan. I should
have gotten rid of it ages ago. But who wants to go pan shopping? I get
45 seconds of free time every day. Like I’m going to use it to do
something necessary and grown-up and boring. Pffft.
So, since I am selfish and immature and use my free time to do
outlandish things like pee and write curse words on Facebook, the
grilled cheese sandwich stuck to the pan. Which destroyed the flip.
Which destroyed the sandwich. Because while “technically” it was still
edible, I was making it for the world’s most discerning and
acid-tongued food critic in the entire world…
A preschooler.
A preschooler, mind you, who considers potatoes too exotic and
spicy.
(And that is a direct quote).
The whole reason we were HAVING grilled cheese for dinner in the first
place was because it was supposed to be easy. I was tired. I didn’t
want to fight about how my meatloaf smells weird and the lasagna looks
like dog food.
(Also direct quotes).
And then the kids started fighting in the living room and the dog
started barking at the kids because he thinks the solution to every
kid-related problem is to just be louder than them (which is also
pretty much my parenting method) and it just seemed like too much
effort to butter some more bread and throw cheese on it and so…
I lost it.
I dramatically threw the whole mess, ruined sandwich, stupid sticky
pan, any semblance of remaining dignity, into the sink and dropped to
my knees right there in the kitchen and let out a primal scream. And
then I cried a little. Not really a real cry but one of those “I wish
someone could see me so they could feel sorry for me” cries. But still,
it did include real tears so if you HAD seen me, you’d probably feel a
little sorry for me.
And then, as I knelt there on the floor and looked around, I realized,
with the clarity that comes after the release of intense emotions, that
the pan is just one of the thousand items in my house that have
completely lost their usefulness and are skating along the thin ice of
their former reputation. Because my whole life is out of control.
Because children are tornadoes of pure love and pure chaos.
And that’s why there is a case of Stella Artois beer bottles sitting in
an obscure corner of our kitchen that has been there so long I’m pretty
sure it’s essential to the structural integrity of our house now. The
beer that was bought because hey, let’s try something new. And the beer
that was abandoned because, hey, it tastes like alcoholic boogers.
Or the tupperware full of used batteries that I can’t get rid of
because I want to properly and responsibly dispose of them but I don’t
know how to properly and responsibly dispose of them and also don’t
want to bother looking up how to properly and responsibly dispose of
them.
Or the ever growing pile of Swiffer sweepers in yet another corner,
only one of which isn’t broken, which is also coincidentally the one I
can never find.
I need to get rid of all this stuff. Gain control. Any control. And I
try to. Especially every year at this time. Because while I can
blissfully ignore it the rest of the year, the thought of Christmas
coming up and all the shiny new things that will be loving piled on top
of all our old crap makes me want to stab myself in the eye with a
candy cane.
But Aprill, you might be thinking, couldn’t at least part of the
solution to your problem be to just ask for a pan for Christmas? And
you’re right. But no. Ew. Gross. Why should my Christmas be ruined with
a practical gift when I can so easily just buy a new pan myself?
Which I will totally do.
Eventually.
Maybe after the Big Omelet Breakdown of 2018.
Or the Pancake Freakout of 2019.
Or the Even Greater Grilled Cheese Meltdown of 2025.
To be honest, I’m probably going to be buried with that stupid pan and
that ancient case of Stella beer.
But hey, at least my ghostly essence will have something to refill my
kids’ sippy cups with when they come visit the cemetery. I’ll even
throw some used batteries at them for their stupid Batman toy.
Can’t get enough of Aprill? Can’t wait until next week?
Check out her website at http://aprillbrandon.com/
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