Ally is producing a sort of whining, grunting shrillness from the swing positioned in the middle of our small kitchen (around which I continuously dance in my attempts to chop broccoli and stir the onions lest they carmelize).
Ari is plopped in the living room, taking in another Veggie Tales and 1/4 cupful of yogurt raisins while asking good-naturedly every 15 minutes if "my dinner is ready". No. It isn't. Dinner will not be ready until Daddy is home. Is Daddy home yet? No. He is not. I have repeated this I-don't-know-how-many times. It has yet to sink in.
Mo is hanging in the kitchen doorway meowing plaintively for his dinner. As if, in our 9 years of feline-human companionship, I have missed a meal. I repeat, it is 4:30 p.m., he does not get fed until 6:30. Two more hours of meowing to go.
I move Ally from the swing into the Bjorn. Instantly, her mood improves as she jerks back and forth with me in the kitchen, watching me chop, saute and peer into the hot oven. This, of course, requires that I curve my back, keeping her away from the chopping knife, hot pan and hot oven door. Yes, funny you should mention, my back does hurt.
Ari, again, requests that his dinner be finished. This time before Daddy comes home. I would be extremely excited that he wants to eat real food so badly...if I didn't know for a fact that he would later eat three bites and declare himself finished (aside: this did later happen)...probably because he filled up on the random pieces of Mac & Cheese scattered over the kitchen floor from lunch with the neighbor boys.
By now, Mo has worked himself into a lather requesting his own dinner; eliciting repeated "No, Mo" from even Ari.
Ally begins to squawk from the Bjorn.
It is 5:15 p.m. The veggie pie is in the oven. No, Daddy is not home.
