To the four people who read yesterday’s post and didn’t comment, here’s the follow-up. Sometimes you can do everything right to have a nice day and a nice house and a nice calm demeanor, then break into a rage because your picky little children won’t even try the taco soup you made for dinner. With Doritos crushed into it, I might add. Do you have any idea how often my kids have seen Doritos in this house? Try never.

But would they eat it? My six year old had the gall to make rude faces for five minutes, whining about how he hates soup. He wouldn’t even try it. When the June Bug (who initially loved it) pushed hers away and started copying her brothers, something inside me snapped.

I grabbed those boys, dragged them to their room (at 5:30) and sent them to bed. And since no one is reading this, I’ll even confess to yelling very scary and loud like about hungry children in Africa, and how I kind of want to ship my kids there so they’ll learn to eat beans. It was loud enough that all of our surrounding neighbors, including the bishop, probably heard me.

Don’t worry, I apologized. I even gave them a chance to come out and try again. Rex decided he’d rather stay in bed (food anxiety) and Harrison came out once to see if he could barter his way down to four bites instead of six. When I flared my nostrils he stomped back to his room and locked me out. Because we all know I was just dying to go hang out in there with him and his new Super Mario wallpaper. (He’s been making me print off coloring pages all day and has managed to plaster them all around his bed.)

I’ve decided Hell will consist of slaving away all day long in a house that never gets clean, making food that nobody eats.