When Your Nethers Itch: A Cautionary Tale Involving Chicken Nuggets

I have totally failed in the serving the family dinner department lately. Not that we’ve ever lived a sort of traditional family life (meaning my big strong husband goes to work while I stay home and roll socks into balls). No. It’s always been like an accidental phenomenon if I prepared a meal and served it at just what so happened to also be dinnertime.

I am progressive that way.

But sometimes, I feel a little guilty for not being that traditional kind of mom. But not guilty enough to change. That’s my tragedy. Or the part that makes me a genius.

So, because sometimes the guilt gets the better of me, this afternoon I laid out chicken breasts, broccolini, and stuff to make a salad. Very June Cleaverish if I do say so myself.

But then Hubs had a few errands to run and took the kids with him. Minutes later, he called to say he had accidentally driven by a McDonald’s and that the kids wanted that for dinner. Did I mind?

Did I mind?

Um….was this a trick question?

I ran to the kitchen, threw all the stupid healthy home cooked ingredients back in the fridge and said, “Heck yeah that’s fine! I’ll take a Filet-O-Fish.”

Because really? Nothing says American Family like Mickey D’s.

Fifteen minutes later, in walked the members of said American Family with bags of yummy smelling food—which included, but was not limited to, french fries and chocolate shakes.

And it was goooooood.

(Note to self: Tomorrow when you’re standing in front of the mirror in your birthday suit weeping about your current physique, remember this moment. The moment where you looked at that fish sandwich in all its tartar saucy squareness and said, “Come to Mama.” And then proceeded to inhale it. Remember this.)

So after the high of the french fries wore off, I went to the bathroom to wash off the day. My four year old son knocked on the door a minute later, announcing he had to go potty. I opened the door to find him standing there, scratching his penis with his chicken nugget. I *wish* I could make this shit up.

My first thought was Holy Shit, This Is Awesome Gross.

And then I tweeted it (Because that’s what really disturbed people do—don’t judge me).

And then? I let him eat it.

So it turns out I’m not *that* mom, but THAT mom.

But don’t forget that I totally get credit for my original plan to cook dinner–pre McDonald’s. So… basically, it’s a wash, right?

Right?