One Hour and Forty Eight Minutes That I Will Never Get Back

I can feel myself growing older by the second. One hour and 48 minutes worth of seconds. Sitting at the bloody table, willing more than one pea to be placed on the fork. More than a quarter teaspoon of potato on the spoon. Just one time, I want all 3 kids to eat their dinner without any drama. The endless jumping up from the table to go to the toilet for the third time since they sat down. Another bottle of water. Thinking they hear someone at the door that they can clearly see from the table. Planking on their chairs because that's completely normal. One hour and forty eight minutes. If I was to produce McDonalds, they would eat quickly, quietly and without complaint. Fish and chips, likewise. But if they know I've made the chips and the fish did not come through the front door, deep fried and wrapped in paper, then it's not really fish and chips and they reserve the right to whine and complain and dramatically drape themselves over the table, all woe is us. Where is the mythical healthy, home cooked, vege filled version of McDonalds, that all kids will happily scoff? Why are my own home made, oven baked chips sooooo unacceptable compared to their deep fried, boxed counterparts? Why will two members of The Feral Threesome scoff a lasagne while the third wallows in the pits of despair over the injustice of being served up such a meal..... Two nights later that third child will ask for seconds of the same base sauce as spaghetti bolognese, while the lasagne loving two take turns faux vomiting in utter disgust over the contents of their dinner plates. I'm pretty sure they have a secret roster going. Taking turns making me lose my shit for their own enjoyment. Probably payback for making them shower on a daily basis. One hour and forty eight minutes. It was a slow cooked lamb casserole. Each mouthful chewed so long that it turned to liquid, and Mstr5 was choking it down. All the while, me begging, pleading, threatening, promising, bargaining, ignoring, praising, berating, ignoring some more. One hour and forty eight minutes. I shit you not. He was my favorite until that point. Now, come dinner time, we are begrudging acquaintances. It is on like Donkey Kong. Mexican standoff across the dinner table.  Fork hovering above the plate, daring me to say something. For one hour and forty eight minutes. Longest non-degustation dinner ever.