Recipe for Disaster

My boys are children.  Children are picky.  Therefore, my boys are picky.

Does it feel like junior high math class again?  I sure hope not.  At my house last night, it felt much more like the lunch room than the math room as I scraped something together for dinner. 
 
"Cael, would you like to have chicken noodle soup or ravioli?"

"I want cookies."

"Well, we don't eat cookies for dinner.  What else would you like?"

"Candy?"

"Okay, goofball.  You know which foods are okay for meals."

"Ooh, I want chicken with syrup!"

"Chicken with syrup?  Yuck!"

"Why not?  We ate chicken for dinner and yesterday we had pancakes for dinner."

"Well yeah, but we didn't eat those things together.  Just because you like two foods doesn't mean they taste good together."

"Like green beans and ice cream?"

"Right.  Or like cereal and ketchup."

"Like bread and poop?"

Ugh.  I am so tired of the poop talk in my house.  Once upon a time, in a land far, far away when I was younger, thinner and more energetic, I worked really hard to eradicate it from our lives.  I think we had two or three days of a poop-free existence until Cael walked in and told me that he wanted me to "put on a poopy show with the poopy remote".  Back to square one. 

"I'm not going to play this game with you if you're going to say yucky bathroom stuff."

"Okay, Mommy."

I'd laid down the law for Cael, but Graham wanted in on the action.

"Poop!"

"Graham, you shouldn't say that at the dinner table either."

"Mommy, what about bananas and hot dogs?" Cael suggested. 

"Poop!"

"Graham..." I said sternly, and then turned to Cael.  "Bananas and hot dogs would also taste gross together." 

"Poop!"

I decided that ignoring it would be a more effective way of making him stop, so I diverted my attention toward my mismatched meal conversation with Cael.

"You know what I like that is kind of funny?" I offered. 

"Poop!" Graham continued.

"I like to put salt on my watermelon.  Or on my chocolate, or peanut butter.  Really, I like salt on almost everything."

"Poop!" 

"That's icky, Mommy.  I only like salt on my chicken."

"Poop!"

Graham's shouts barely registered anymore; my super-human Mommy skills of selective listening focused solely on Cael.

"And guess what else, Cael... I like peanut butter on my poop!"

Oh, no.  My ears didn't hear it, but my brain had.  And my brain, totally exhausted and probably resentful for my lack of sleep lately, staged a parenting revolt and made me exclaim that which I have been fighting for more than two years.

I guess we won't be having peanut butter sandwiches anytime soon.