We’ve been having one of THOSE seasons around here lately. The ones where you make sure the wine is on hand, the friend is on speed-dial, and the parents have copious opportunities to talk behind closed doors. For real. Like, talk. No euphemisms here, just stuff to figure out. Adulting, full tilt.
Tonight, I’m solo parenting, so I allow the kids more of a vote on what hits the table. They voted for homemade pizza. Brilliant.
Homemade pizza is a term my children have coined for white bread with jar pizza sauce and shredded mozzarella cheese, heated in our toaster oven.
Jealous, right? I know!
Here, here’s the recipe:
White bread: 1-2 slices per person
Jar o’ pizza sauce: tablespoon or so per slice
Bag of pre-shredded mozzarella cheese: enough to cover the sauce
Assemble. Toast. Serve.
Please hear me, people: I LOVE TO COOK. Cooking is my art, my hobby, my therapy, my passion. I read cookbooks. I love the tangible quality of creating food. I would make from-scratch homemade dough. I would cook pizza sauce from tomatoes to final product. I would select and shred artisanal cheeses. I would do it differently if left in the driver’s seat. And I found myself internally beating me up for serving lame homemade pizza to my children. Because I’m tired. I’m flying solo. The easy out felt like a cop-out.
But here’s the rub.
THEY. LOVE. IT.
They thought it up.
It brings them joy.
They asked for it, helped with it, eagerly ate it, and went on with their lives.
AND THAT IS ALL THAT MATTERS.
So you know what, my self-barraging psyche can take a back seat. We have survived a dying water heater, our first broken arm, and brakes in desperate need of replacement this week. And we’re still kicking.
It’s not about me… It’s about them.
The pinewood derby car that they built all by themselves? Them.
The homemade pizza? Them.
The “mom, can you come sit and watch with me”? Them.
My inner critic dissolves in the light of who ultimately matters. Them.
Love yourselves a little tonight, fellow moms. I know I’ll try to as well.