What a relief that this one is over! It was supposed to be the beginning of a whole new era of taking pride in my domestic duties, but au contraire! I am heaving a mighty sigh of relief and popping the fishfingers on.
The last fortnight has seen: spaghetti bolognaise (x3); vegetarian lasagne, pasta carbonara (you’ll notice a penchant for pasta in our house); prawn risotto, jacket potatoes (does that count as cooking?); a freestyle chicken stroganoff creation and a curry.
Each new dish brings forth fresh wails of dismay from the children. The eldest falls to the ground in teary distress if confronted with anything other than pasta and cheese. Each night when I shout ‘Dinner!’, it has been with heavy heart; the word heralds an hour-long stand-off while we negotiate miserably over the exact quantity of each item that must be consumed in order to qualify for pudding. Doleful faces grimace; anguished sobbing fills the air. Cups of squash are at the ready to banish the fearsome taste of my cuisine. A mouthful is reluctantly accepted, only then to be rejected, and sprayed all over the table. The manners agenda is dropped entirely, in favour of getting anything eaten at all. They can eat it off the floor tiles with their hands or even feet, if they would only eat it.
Stickers are promised, sticker reward agreements brokered. Daddy is called home from critical meetings to present a united front at the battle scene. No workplace demand could compete with the level of urgency, of knowing our trio is about to be confronted with a vegetable lasagne.
It is a sapping business. But at least I have done it.