The Puddles

After picking the kids up from school and running twenty errands, it was finally time to head home.  The kids have been periodically complaining that they were hungry and asking what’s for dinner while we ran errands, but when we turned the corner into the neighborhood the voices became louder as they begged for dinner details.  I told them it would be tasty (that’s my general evasive maneuver when I don’t really know what I am going to fix).  When that didn’t work, I told them I was fixing rutabaga.  They asked what rutabaga was.  I told them it was a delicious vegetable.  They complained. I told them that Ms. Shirley agrees with you and told me that I shouldn’t give you rutabaga.  Madie said that Ms. Shirley was right and that rutabaga shouldn’t be given to children.  I told them that they should try and get Mr. Larry and Ms. Shirley to let them become a Finke because that was the only way that they were going to avoid rutabaga.

Just at that moment Ms. Shirley’s suburban drives by (the TOL sticker in the rear window is always a clear indicator as to whom the car belongs).  Unbeknown to us Ms. Shirley is on her way home at that moment (of course, I play dumb and pretend I don’t see the car but, doggone it, the children spotted it immediately).  The children start to chant “Save us, Ms. Shirley!”  “Please”  “Don’t make us eat rutabaga!” “You are our only hope!” (that one was Ainsley).  We are nearing our house.  Ms. Shirley’s brake lights come on.  Madie shouts, “Thank you, Ms. Shirley.  She will save us.”  But then her suburban moves on (the car in front of her must of slowed down).  There is a collective groan from the three children.  And Ainsley says very sad and pathetic, “I guess we have to eat rutabaga now.”   Poor Ms. Shirley.  She had no idea the life and death struggle my children felt like they were dealing with in the car and the pivotal role that she was playing in the outcome.

Please note that I as their mother do not routinely buy odd vegetables to serve them.   Although I am a huge fan of all normal vegetables unlike my sister who doesn’t like red fruits or green vegetables (Poor Gordon!) But I stick to the basics.  When Chris’s grandma moved out of her house, she sent her pantry to our house.  Included in the gift was canned rutabaga.  I see this as an opportunity to try something new.  My children (and others apparently) see this as a means of cruel and unusual punishment.

This is my proof that I actually own a can of rutabagas.

I have promised my children no rutabaga tonight, but I have assured them at some point in the near future rutabaga will be on the dinner menu.  In the end, I . . . will . . . win. (insert evil laughter here.)

Update:

I called Ms. Shirley to share the story and ask permission to put her on my blog.  She granted permission with the caveat that I NOT feed my children rutabaga.  Fudge Brownies (the words we use in this family in lue of cussing)!  If it wasn’t such a cute story to share, I wouldn’t have agreed to the deal.  But in the end I must feed the blog 😉