I have grandiose ideas for kid lunches and fun kind of dinners. Lists and pinboards and files full of sandwiches and sandwich derivatives — roll ups, pitas, paninis.   What a celebration lunch has become as we explore worlds of international flavors and textures. Cheese, meats, tofu, vegetables of all types are attempted every day.

Just kidding. They only want macaroni and cheese. Their bodily composition, by all medical accounts, is 99% semolina.  I would love to have children with sophisticated palates. We introduce them to new foods and encourage the “no thank you” helping. Monkey J. has started to just look at the meals I serve and insist he doesn’t like it. Unless it’s noodles.

It’s a tricky battle, as Monkey J is 5th percentile weight and we’re tasked with increasing his body mass.  Sneaking things into the noodles has a 50% success rate. Insisting on other foods and not offering anything else also has a 50% success rate. J would just as easily not eat.

Then there are days he surprises us and declares his love for goat cheese and portobello sandwiches.

I long for time to make beautiful meals for my family that they will eat.  Right now, Huzzy and I are sandwiched as well.  Huzzy’s father has the early signs of Alzheimer’s. This has made his already cantakerous nature pricklier.  Huzzy’s mother just had hip surgery. The surgery actually went well. Huzzy’s Mom has a notorious problem being in pain, taking pain meds, taking care of herself, recovery, and doctors in general, so we’re on week two of caregiving.

Meanwhile, Monkey L. not only has croup but a hell of a cold. Another one. He seems to get them every 6-8 weeks during the school year. The poor boy never gets a small cold. It’s always full-blown.  So he was up the last three nights, miserable.  He’s too sick to do much activity, but he’s not sick enough to be ok resting/staying in bed. Not even with the lure of television.

Baby K. is teething and under the weather and realizing if she sleeps during the day, she may lose critical opportunities to watch the dog scratch himself. So she’s up and grunting and whining and wanting to be held.

Monkey J. is fine, except for all the attention his sick siblings are getting.

And me? Well, I’m still recovering from delivery complications and have an appointment to have my arm looked at for pain that’s been there for almost two years.  We know it’s not vascular. I’m also tired from three weeks of interrupted sleep…or no sleep at all.  Three weeks. Three goddamned weeks.

I’m tired and cranky, and Huzzy is taking care of his mother and I’m taking care of the boys and all I want is to have everyone cuddling under a blanket on the couch watching crap tv and dozing. What I get is two boys foot-fighting, a drooling baby who wants more action, and a throbbing eyeball.

My sister-in-law just begged us to make dinner for her/Huzzy’s parents tomorrow because she’s spent. And they’re refusing to eat what she makes for them. So I’ll make them dinner and we’ll deliver, and I’ll hope that there are no croup germs floating around the food, and not once will I ask why they aren’t ordering food in.  From a restaurant.

And no, they don’t eat sandwiches.