Cooking with the Toddler.

Yesterday I found a great recipe for Cajun Chicken with Fettucini Alfredo. Sounded awesome. Sounded easy. 30 minutes or less and I would whip up a (different) dinner for the 3 of us. Perfect.

Then 4:55pm hit.

For those of you with 2 year olds who don't always nap-- you know what this means. For those of you who do not, just know that you're missing out on one of the most tragically awful moments in the life of a toddler. Suddenly the realization that they did not nap; even though they were utterly exhausted, were calmly placed in their bed for almost a full hour and a half-- had been read to, sang to, rocked and ultimately set up for the most glorious nap time of their little lives, is just all too much to bear. A lifetime of regret befalls the toddler and the fact that Mama cannot and will not "PIIIICKKKK UPPPPPPP!!!!!" is the worst thing ever.

So between 4:55pm and 5:30pm when my husband walked through the door, I chopped, mixed, blackened and whisked. I tripped over 3 plastic animals from Old McDonald's godforsaken tractor. I willed the rapidly sprouting migraine away. I squatted down to my screaming and crying toddler and calmly explained that Mama is making dinner, which only made him more exasperated that I could not attend to his sudden outburst of complete frustration.

I did not drink an entire bottle of wine, cry or scream "SHUTTTTT UPPPPPP!" like I wanted to.

In the end, here's how dinner worked out--

I forgot to add the cheese to the sauce, so as I was plating what looked like a beautiful pile of fettucini, I yelled at Eric as though we were 12 tickets behind at a high end/high stress restaurant and we both tried to salvage the Alfredo.
I sliced the cajun chicken and realized when I shoved my burning finger into my mouth, that I had used entirely too much cajun seasoning, rendering my beautifully blackened chicken thighs so salty they were nearly inedible.
Eric plated the pasta, I coddled Harrison and the tears subsided.
As we sat down at the table, all of my preconceived notions of this beautifully home cooked meal vanished into the gloppy oily cheese covering the overcooked pasta.

I ate a pb&j after Harrison was in bed.