Falling on the Sword

Tomorrow night, I will be working through the dinner hour. Because I'm feeling martyr-ish today, I'm spending my evening cooking and freezing baked stuffed shells for the boys and their dad to dine on in my absence. That is the kind of long-suffering mother I am: I'm going to be cooking them dinner FROM A MILE AWAY.

Baked shells are incredibly putzy. I know my mother made these for us when we are kids, but it's hard to imagine any Seventies mother, even my own incredibly handy and capable one, piping ricotta cheese into pasta shells. The only think I remember her using her pastry bag for was decorating a Wilton R2-D2 cake. I filled mine by putting the cheesy glop (ricotta, eggs, mozz, parm, basil and garlic) into a clear Ziploc with a hole stipped in a corner. A clear plastic bag of cheese filling just looks demented. The temptation to take it to the top of a tall building and drop it on somebody's head just proves how far I am from being a genuine grownup.

One tries to be a good mother. Loving, accepting of the kids' flaws, giving of oneself without expecting anything in return but the joy of parenting. But I suspect myself of the bottomless capacity for setting up crazy guilt trips such as the one I will be laying down tomorrow night as I slave away at my job while my children dine joyously on my homemade baked shells with marinara sauce.