Irony

I have decided that the process of serving dinner emphasizes one of the most ironic things of motherhood.

You see, I like the temperature of my food to be hot -- steaming hot -- hot enough that if I am not careful I will burn off the precious taste buds on my tongue.

But more often than not, things go something like this: I put it on the table. We have the prayer. I dish up the food for my starving and impatient kids. I cut up the food for the littlest ones. I then spend a lot of time trying to COOL DOWN their food, by adding ice cubes, blowing on it, or putting it in the fridge.

By the time their food is cool enough for them to eat it on their own, guess what -- mine is cold too.

Sometimes I try leaving the grown-up food on the stove until the kid food is cooled down, but usually, I just have to throw my whole plate in the microwave.

But food just tastes DIFFERENT when it comes from a microwave.

So how in the world is a mom supposed to have hot food, and the kids have cold food, and still have everyone eat together.

Maybe I just have to wait a few years until they've burned off enough taste buds to really appreciate hot stuff.