Monkey: ". . . . so boys work to earn money."
Twin Daddy: "Honey, listen. Both boys AND girls work to earn money. Mommy chose to stay home with you and take care of you. But before you were born, she had a job where she earned money. And she is looking for a job again. Mommy is very, very smart and does really, really good work at her jobs."
Monkey: "But she's not as good at cooking."
Twin Daddy: "Well . . . "
Me: "I'm very happy with honesty here. Let's not pretend."
Twin Daddy: "Maybe it's not her greatest strength."
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It's no accident that my cooking came up tonight, a night when I threw the chicken I made directly into the garbage after dinner. Twin Daddy was the only one who ate any, the girls refused to eat it and I took one bite and then served the three of us cold hot dogs directly from the package. The potatoes were undercooked and the green beans were overcooked and I complained the whole time about how awful it all was. I do this most nights because, frankly, I hate my cooking. It's not usually "throw it directly into the garbage" bad, but I have a feeling it just doesn't taste very good to me because I'm so annoyed I had to cook it.
Saturday morning the girls were asking if Twin Daddy was going to make breakfast. We were all cuddling together in our big bed, playing around, and I asked who they thought was a better cook, Daddy or Mommy. This was a set up, because I certainly know the answer and was just curious what they thought. They both yelled, "Daddy!" and I agreed, saying, "I'm not as good as Daddy at cooking." Monkey certainly recalled that point tonight! I swear, sometimes I fantasize about getting a job solely for the purpose of persuading Twin Daddy to quit his and take over all cooking duties full time. We'd all be in food heaven, and Monkey would learn first hand that girls can bring home the bacon, too.
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