Last night for dinner I planned broccoli slaw salad with almonds, snap peas and ginger dressing. To go with it I made garlic lime chicken, with a bit of the dressing tossed in, ginger carrots and some rice to go with the meal for the kids. Jamie was complaining, despite the rice that I added to his plate - and said:

“It doesn’t matter how many carrots you put on my plate, you know what’s happening when the kids go to bed”

Yes, it happens around here a lot when a meal has been particularly unsatisfying for him (you know, those healthy meals, with fresh food and salads). And I’m fine with it, as long as he doesn’t get the kids a second dinner - they’re eating what’s on their damn plates.

He took the kids to the park, I cleaned up from dinner and got caught up on a bit of work and I offered to put the kids to bed since we’re seven to one. Then, he snuck off for a burger of shame, texting me asking if I wanted anything.

I didn’t want a burger, I was full from dinner. But I caved for root beer.

Until he came home, and the greasy fries were calling my name - and a bite of his burger. Then, I caught myself grabbing more fries. And I wasn’t even hungry. Just, you know, fries. My brain says, “Hey you’re full!” and my hands say “Hey, how quick can I get a giant handful of fries in my mouth?”

Next time, he can eat his burger of shame on the way home in the car.