Lunch didn’t go well. Rather, the cooking of lunch didn’t go well.
I’m no slouch in the kitchen, so when I make an obviously rookie mistake while making something simple I tend to be a little rough on myself. This combined with a less than pleasant experience with my oldest’s bus driver this morning, a new unwanted dog and being that I’m on the second week of a diet and I would really like to sit down and eat a dozen Krispy Kreme donuts in one sitting has all got me a little… on edge.
Well in the middle of this cooking catastrophe my three year-old, Demon Spawn, decides to start giving me cooking tips.
“You should make it hotter Daddy. Stir it faster Daddy. When I cook things don’t stick. You should learn to cook from me. I cook good. My food is better. You’re burning it. Make it cooler Daddy.”
That’s when I snapped.
“You don’t Know HOW TO COOK! You are THREE! THE DRAWERS I’M WEARIN'” (the only time that it becomes obvious that I’m from the south is when I’m mad, drunk or fishing.) “ARE OLDER THAN YOU! YOU DO NOT KNOW WHAT YOU ARE TALKING ABOUT! YOU… ARE… THREE! THREE! YOU DON’T TELL ME, I TELL YOU! DO YOU HEAR ME! THREE! I’M THE GROWN UP! I KNOW HOW TO COOK! YOU DON’T! I’M THE ADULT! I COOK! YOU KNOW NOTHING! NOTHING!”
As I sat there panting, glaring at Demon Spawn, he stared back at me calmly. “Daddy,” he says. “That was very inappropriate behavior. You need to spend some time in your room.”
I hate that fucking kid.