"...too proud..."

I really strove to keep our grocery bill low for the next couple of weeks. I had everything rationed and planned out perfectly. I left no room for error. I planned on having Breakfast for Dinner last night.

Branflake was in a sour mood and P.B. was in the shower after mowing the lawn. Knowing that P.B. wouldn't help feed Bran his dinner (pureed foods "gross him out") and I can't trust him to cook bacon without eating all of it I decided to try and pull a Super Mom.

I got the bacon ration into the oven, popped a cube frozen sweet potato into the microwave to defrost, and started shredding potatoes for hash browns. Baby went into the high chair, shredded potato went into the skillet. A couple spoonfuls of puree, go check the bacon, cue crying baby, a few more spoonfuls of puree, check the hash browns, more crying.

After finishing his sweet potato I gave him some mushed up banana and back and forth I went, spooning out mush, dancing and singing to the baby while checking on dinner. Once he'd made a sufficient mess of the banana I gave him a bottle I'd pumped earlier to keep him occupied while I finished up with the hash browns.

P.B. comes out of the bedroom after what I can only imagine to be a long, luxurious shower (something I haven't had in over six months) and asks the baby why he is crying.

"Is mommy not feeding you?" (are you fucking serious?) Then he sees the bottle on the floor and asks, "Is this still okay?"

"Of course it's okay, I'm not giving him spoiled milk, but you might want to wipe off the nipple."

"Maybe it's his teeth?" P.B. got up and opened the freezer, "I don't see any of his teething rings."

"I don't know what keeps happening to them."

Digging in the freezer, "Nope, there aren't any in here."

P.B. turns back to Branflake and starts giving him a "pep talk" about being polite at the dinner table. I go to the freezer, right in front is a frozen teething ring. I grab it and hand it to P.B. who then sees the bowl the sweet potato was in and proclaims he's going to get sick if he has to look at that puree much longer (I'd scraped the bowl clean when feeding Bran; there was only a tiny bit left on the edges). I snatched the bowl from the table and put it in the sink and turned my attention back toward dinner.

THE BACON!!!

I burned bacon.

Commence meltdown.

Yep. I had the most irrational meltdown over burned bacon. Super Mom I am not.

I blamed P.B. for the burned bacon because he couldn't just take charge without direction (not to mention the whining about less than a teaspoon of puree was just ridiculous) and made him eat it for dinner. I awarded myself with an extra egg for the effort I'd put into attempting to feed and entertain the baby while simultaneously cooking dinner.

Next time I'm not going to be too proud to tell P.B. that I need a little help, his excuses be damned.