I'm a bedtime hostage

I cooked half the day today, but the kids and I had leftovers for dinner.

Most of it probably didn't fit in the "healthier than thou" category, and as I told my mother on the phone, I felt bad. She laughed at me and asked why. Well, because it's not the "hey I tried to make you a gourmet toddler meal" approach to motherhood I was envisioning while my husband was out of town for the week. It was more the, "we're poor and I didn't go to the store for lasagna noodles and milk" version.

Meh. My one bowl of chili and the peas/corn combo, even in the freshest state, weren't on the gourmet list either. Since I was starving (or I like to tell myself I was), I just housed a bologna and cheese sandwich at 11:30 p.m. to try warding off a headache that really won't go away unless I drag my ass to bed. And the headache is likely because of a lack of caffeine, reading in the dark and begging my eldest to just go the fuck to sleep already. Here, listen to Samuel L. Jackson tell this bedtime story, which basically is every single night in my house.