I accidentally wrote “Cocking Dinner” first, which is an entirely different thing altogether, unless you are British and the term “Cocking Dinner” means really effing it up. “Cocking dinner” is probably a category on PornHub. I will not verify or deny.

Sidenote- I always seem to write “headshit” whenever I mean to write “headshot.” I’m pretty sure there’s something subliminal in that mistake. A Freudian slip, if you will, about the nature of acting. Do we actors get sh*t on? We do. Are we sh*theads? Some of us. Thus, the headshit.

Here’s how I cook dinner for my child:

Get four frozen nuggets from a bag. These are the ones with the hidden veggies and this is the only kind he will eat more than two of.

Put those nugs on the toaster-oven tray. First, you must lament the fact that you are using tinfoil and that you haven’t gotten around to ordering a silicone mat because honestly, you don’t trust your own measurements and they are also really expensive and you do not want to buy them from Amazon.

Do something else, like find errant socks or diffuse a cat fight or play “Boom” with the Boychild. “Boom” is a game in where I sit on a gym mat holding a foam brick. Then Boychild hurls himself at me with the force of a pro-footballer and I say “Boom!” as he runs headlong into the foam brick, falls backwards on his duff and laughs. It’s so much fun (?).

Remember that the nuggets are thawing on the counter and are in fact not in the oven. Shove them in the oven.

Decide which vegetable you’d like to throw out tonight and prepare that vegetable.

Make our dinner, which is, ya know, not nuggets. It pains me that I can’t feed my kid the same stuff that we eat. We’ve tried. And tried. He gags. Or refuses. I feel like I’m torturing him. So, NUGS IT IS!

Whip together some organic, yet microwavable mac-n-cheese. I love the irony here.

Burn self trying to get super-hot volcanic bowl of mac-n-cheese out of microwave.

Forget that you didn’t put a timer on the nugs. Try to remember when they went in. Do some math to figure out- oh, f*ck it, I can’t do math- set the timer for five more minutes because whatever.

Pour Boychild’s milk into the dinosaur cup. No, not that one! NOT THAT ONE!! The one where you drink our of the dinosaur’s TAIL!!! MAMA!!

Sit down to eat. The nuggets are too hot, so we have to wait a minute. Also, I forgot that he needs a napkin so, I have to get that for him. Then he has to go poop halfway through dinner. EVERY NIGHT. We can almost set our watch by it. You know you’re a bad-assed mom, when you can stop eating, wipe a poopy butt, and go right back to your tacos with no loss of appetite.

Dinner is such a pain, but it’s so worth it. And listen, I know that people are gonna judge, but the latest science says that half of all kids are picky eaters who will outgrow their pickiness. We’re weathering the storm and trying to make meals a memorable family time together. It doesn’t matter too much that he will only eat five beige foods. What matters to us is hearing his weird and funny stories and making sure he gets fed. Also, we’ve invested in plenty of liquid vitamins (because he won’t eat gummy vites of any sort). Bon appetit!