Yeah, I bought Toaster Strudels. Judge me all you want. I also bought a kilo of ramen noodles. Does it make me a better person if I tell you there was organic chicken in the same cart?
There are times I feel as though I need to explain my food purchases to everyone else in the grocery store, and the cashier as well. "It's so the kids can make themselves a snack!" I want to say. "I bought a ton of fruit and vegetables at Costco yesterday. I swear." "Lunchables are the lazy mom's bento box, yo. QUIT LOOKING IN MY CART!"
Grocery shopping is kind of traumatic for me.
So here's where I was going with this post. I bought Toaster Strudels. Four boxes of them. Because they were cheap, and because my kids like them. And every once in a while, I buy them crappy food because they like it. There. I have officially come out. Of the freezer, that is.
Last night, before I put on my sleep mask and fell asleep at 9:30, Henry asked if I would please wake him up early. "Like, 5:00, Mom."
Henry used to be my favorite kid in the mornings. Just a tap on the shoulder and he'd hop up, a smile on his sweet chubby face and a "Good morning, mama!" just for me.
Now he's 16. And waking him up requires stamina, patience and sometimes full body armor.
There's the initial shoulder tap/nudge. The whispered, "Hey Henry, good morning! Time to get up honey!". This is met with silence. Not a muscle twitches.
A more vigorous shake follows. Voice raises from gentle mommy whisper to conversational volume: "Hey, Henry! You asked me to wake you up early! Time to rise and shine!".
A grunt. One eye opens, sizes me up. Closes again.
Annoyed voice from mom now. I have things to do, you know. "HENRY! Get up! Come on. Do you want a Toaster Strudel?" Now you see why I have four boxes of these processed nightmares in my freezer. THEY ARE BAIT.
Two eyes are open now. A yawn. One impossibly long, hairy leg sticks out. "Okay, okay. I'm awake. Yeah, I want a Toaster Strudel."
Because I'm an enabler, I go into the kitchen and make the strudel. "Time to make the strudel" I say to myself. Myself laughs at my funny reference.
During my brief college career, three years in total, I spent every summer working in a bakery. It was called "Robert's Bakery" and was a true mom and pop operation, owned by Robert and his wife Charlotte. They were good people. During those summers, I arose at 4:30 every morning and headed out to really, and truly, make the donuts. And the cakes, the bread, the bagels. Sometimes I decorated the cakes, and by the end of my bakery run I was pretty good at it. Good enough to make some really cool cakes for my babies, and good enough so I watch shows like Cake Boss and say, "Pffft. I could totally do that."
Apparently handling frosting isn't like riding a bike. I realized that this morning. You see, this is what a Toaster Strudel looks like in the commercials:
And this is what the horror show in my kitchen looked like:
Because I am a gentlelady, and I don't want to make some of my more sensitive readers go away, I will refrain from saying what I am really thinking my spastic frosting looks like (were you thinking what I was thinking? Because that's what I was thinking. Sorry, gentle readers. I can't stop myself). To me, it looks like the Pillsbury Dough Boy left something "extra special" on my strudels.
I served them to my crabby, semi-awake son anyway.
Have a fabulous Tuesday, people. And remember, for every grocery cart of crap you see, there's a mom with justifications behind it. Be gentle.