One day last week, while shopping at Aldi, I ran into a lady I know from church. We chatted for a few moments, exchanging pleasantries, and she mentioned all the food she was buying for her two older children, who are approaching their teenage years. I told her I was pretty scared at the thought of feeding our three children at that age, and the grocery bills that are sure to come.
Her reply? "You should be."
This sober response did little to quell my fears, although she did follow this comment up with a smile. Not a "Just kidding!" kind of smile; more like a "I would feel sorry for you, but I'm too busy feeling sorry for me," kind.
This little conversation has been replaying in my head at odd times- or maybe not so odd, as it's usually when I'm feeding the kiddos. Especially Caedmon, who just shovels food into his mouth, and has started saying, "Yeah-yeah-yeah-yeah-yeah..." with increasing urgency anytime someone walks past his highchair with food.
At around 4:30 today, I took a look around the house and realized it was a disaster. (It had been a wild and raucous afternoon of playing.) So I began assigning tasks to Atticus and Adelaide to help me get things put back in order before Derek got home. They're usually pretty good about this, and today was no different. They were so efficient and I was so pleased, I decided to make apple cinnamon waffles for supper. (Plus I didn't feel like preparing an actual meal, but that's beside the point.) It took me about two seconds to decide that I should double the recipe; even with three diced apples added, one batch of waffles is barely enough to feed Derek alone.
So I'm dicing and mixing and getting the batter ready, and there's so much of it that it fills one of my larger mixing bowls. Nothing unusual there. Then the herd gathers at the table while I man (woman?) the waffle iron, cooking waffle after waffle after waffle. Every time I thought I was actually going to get to eat one, one of the A's would pipe up, "May I have another waffle, please?" or Caedmon would start making his "FEED ME!" sounds. I finally did get a waffle of my very own, but it was close. Our family chowed their way through two batches of waffles in short order, and it hit me: the time is not so distant when I'm going to have to start tripling recipes. As in, making three times as many as the recipe calls for.
Three times the enchiladas. Three times the pasta salad. Three times the EVERYTHING.
This makes me a little scared of how much I'm going to have to make in about ten years, and the grocery bills to come.
But apparently I should be.