My mom just tried to kill me

My family is full of really good cooks. Not just my mom, but all my brothers and sisters-in-law, too. Dinner at any of their houses is a treat to look forward to.

I, on the other hand, am a really good patron. Which means, I can't cook worth a damn, but I can point you to all the best restaurants.

But my brothers have been making me feel a little self-conscious about my culinary skills lately. This was most apparent at a dinner my brother Brad made. Mark was scarfing down the food, and only stopped once, briefly, to ask for more broccoli.

Seriously, he wanted more BROCCOLI! My kid, who won't eat anything that even resembles a vegetable, requested a second helping of my brother's broccoli. (I have never before--nor since--heard him repeat this request.)

And so, I picked up the gauntlet. I can't have my child growing up thinking the only homemade meals come out of Grandma's or his uncles' houses.

I started with a relatively easy meal--pasta. It had an Asian flair, and though it came from a box, I personally cooked it and added the spice packet, so I'm declaring that homemade. It was a little salty, but Mark gave it a thumbs up.

The next meal was ribs. I don't eat any meat other than chicken or turkey, but I figured I could grill it on the barbecue. I was a little concerned when I called my mom to confirm this and she said, "How long do you have to cook it?"

I was thinking, "Whaddaya mean, how long? It's five o'clock, I've got about 30 minutes!"

What I said was, "How long will it take?"

My mom instructed me to bake the ribs, informing me this could take as long as two hours. (And I would cook dinner for two hours why?) We compromised on baking them for an hour, then grilling them, which shaved off 30 minutes.

Mark also gave this recipe a thumbs up, albeit as a back-handed compliment.

"They're good," he proclaimed, and my heart swelled with pride. Then he deflated it by adding, "For you."

"They're not as good as Grandma's," he explained. "Grandma makes everything better than you."

My third attempt was black bean and pasta soup. Again, it came from a bag, but I had to wash, cook, and drain the beans twice, which again, I declare is cooking. I also added a chicken breast and veggies to make the soup healthier. Unfortunately, I did not add any additional liquids, so the "soup" turned into a chunky, gloppy stew better eaten with a fork. Which we tried. And did not like. And poured down the garbage disposal, replacing it with a can of clam chowder Mark inhaled.

I was about to give up on all this culinary crap, when my mom suggested I start smaller. She's a huge fan of Sam the Cooking Guy, and swore his recipes were so simple, even I couldn't mess them up. (I appreciate her misguided faith in me.)

So last night, armed with my Sam cookbook, a bottle of salsa, some chicken broth, tortillas, avocados and chicken breast, I whipped up a batch of Sam's tortilla soup.

It was amazing -- from start to finish, it took 20 minutes. As it was cooking, Mark wandered into the kitchen, lured by the wonderful smell. I felt so proud, and thought maybe my mom was right--even I hadn't screwed this up!

Until I sampled the soup and screamed like a banshee.

Mark came running back to the kitchen. "What's wrong?" he asked, alarmed.

"Burned my tongue," I cried.

Not because the soup was hot, but because the soup was spicy. The kind of spicy you find in, say...FIRE!

But I'd already tossed out one pot of soup last week, I wasn't going to toss another. I pretended like the whole last moment hadn't occurred, and I sent Mark to the table bearing tortilla strips, cheese and avocados, all of which I hoped would mellow the flavor. It did not.

In between huge gulps of soda (which Mark set on my placemat with an ominous, "You will need this!"), I called my mom.

"You and Sam tried to kill me!" I cried. "Why would you suggest that recipe??"

"You used medium salsa?" she asked, and between my coughing and gagging, I peeped, "Yes."

"No, no, that's too hot!" she exclaimed. "You've got to use mild! I should've told you before."

I wiped the sweat from my eyes, and sputtered, "It's not that hot, I think I can finish it--" but was cut short by another coughing fit. Damn, that soup was burning my throat, my lips, my mouth! That was some hot soup!

And so, today, I think I shall hang up my apron. Tonight we are having tacos, made from pre-seasoned ground turkey stuffed into store-bought tortillas. I may add my own little flare with some diced lettuce (from a pre-washed bag of salad), and maybe even a little pre-grated cheese for color. I probably won't taste any of it, because I'm pretty sure I burned away all of my tastebuds last night, but at least it will look pretty.

I don't care what my mom says, Sam is not idiot proof. I can bear first-hand witness to that. (And Mark, unfortunately, will second that.)

And for my next trick, I'll ruin Christmas

Talk about the road to Hell being paved with good intentions...

Mark's 9th birthday is coming up, and we've been discussing party plans. He wants a skating party like last year, even though I've suggested other new activities such as bowling, ice skating, you name it. Each suggestion was met with, "Maybe...no, I want a skating party."

Until I found a really cool place called Pump It Up. It's a party place filled with inflatables kids can jump on for two hours straight. It sounded perfect for a group of hyperactive 9-year-old boys! And it seemed even more perfect when I told them my party date, and they said they'd just had a rare cancellation.

"Usually, you need to book a party 3 to 4 months in advance," the woman told me. Come on, any place that requires booking that far ahead of time must be a blast.

I showed Mark the Web site, and he seemed all right with it. "OK," he said quickly. "I'll have my party there."

I asked if he was sure about it, and he said yes. "I have to call back today and put down a deposit," I warned. "So be sure!"

"I am!" he promised.

So I made the deposit, and finalized the plans. I was so excited to find a cool party place -- Mark can invite up to 25 kids, and adults are all free. I thought we were good.

Until I got home. Mark was sitting at the table when I casually mentioned that I had booked his birthday party at Pump It Up. He immediately burst into tears -- not exactly the reaction I was expecting.

"I wanted a skating party!" he wailed, and all I could think of was, "What the...?"

"You told me to book the party," I said. "You said you wanted to go here!"

"No, I said I wanted a skating party!" He wouldn't stop crying. He grew more and more upset, until he couldn't even talk, he was crying so hard.

So, great. Instead of Thoughtful Mother Who Planned the Perfect Birthday Party, I'm now the Mean Wicked Mother Who Ruined My 9th Birthday. (Guess I've given him more fuel for his tell-all Mommy Dearest book!)

Or, as I now like to call myself, Mean Wicked Mother Who's About to Lose Her $100 Deposit.

I know my sisters-in-law are much kinder souls, who all put their children's happiness first. I know all three of them would immediately cancel the party, take their kids out for ice cream, and apologize profusely for inflicting such stress upon them.

I, however, am a Dinsdale by birth (not marriage), which unfortunately means sometimes I think more like my brothers than like my sisters-in-law. And in this case, I reacted the same as my brothers would, which is to say, "It'll be fun, you'll like it, SUCK IT UP!"

I've never wanted to say suck it up more than I wanted to last night, but I bit my tongue instead. The dang kid kept crying, and I started thinking, Geez, I'm going to hear about ruining his birthday for the rest of my life!

But I'm still kinda mad about the whole thing. I mean, it's not like I picked a jail or work camp to hold his party -- I wouldn't have it somewhere he'd hate! I honestly thought he'd have a great time there -- he's always the first kid in the jump house whenever we see one, and the last kid out. I didn't purposefully pick a rotten party venue just because I hate roller skating parties (which I don't, for the record).

If he really wants a skating party, I guess I'll give in. However...I'm not giving up that $100 deposit without a fight!

"How about a compromise?" I asked. He finally stopped sobbing long enough to hear me out.

"What if we go to Pump It Up on Saturday and look around? If you absolutely hate it, I'll cancel the party." He wiped away his tears, and nodded.

So we're going on a field trip Saturday morning. And I'm sending out party invitations this weekend -- even though I'm not sure where the party will be!

Mr. Passive-Aggressive

Sometimes Mark spouts out whatever he's thinking, and his sassy mouth gets him in trouble. Other times, he gets his point across more subtly.

Last night, I was rushing around the kitchen, making dinner, and Mark kept getting in the way. I suggested that perhaps it was time for drum practice out in the garage. He disagreed. "I don't want to play my drums now!" he wailed.

I finally kicked him out of the kitchen. "PLEASE go find something to do!" I yelled. He stomped off angrily, feelings hurt.

We sat down to eat, and as soon as I stopped moving, I got a chill. "It's cold in here!" I noted. I went down the hall and turned up the thermostat.

After dinner, Mark brought out his new Diary of a Wimpy Kid book. It's a do-it-yourself book, where you can write stories or draw comics. Mark worked diligently on a story while I washed the dishes.

"Hey Mom," he called a few minutes later. "Wanna hear my story?"

"I'd love to," I answered, so he started reading aloud.

"Once there was the meanest mom in the whole wide world, " he started, then immediately stopped. "It's not about you," he said quickly, but as he read on, I had my doubts.

"Anyway...there was the meanest mom in the whole world, and she was always cold. " He shivered for affect.

"The meanest mom was so mean that she waited for everyone to go to sleep, and then she started playing the drums. She played the drums at 2 o'clock in the morning and woke everyone up. She didn't even care, she was so mean. The end." He smiled proudly at me.

Let's see...I kicked him out of the kitchen, talked about drums and being cold, but this story was not about me, huh? Suuuuuure.

Oh well, Mommy Dearest-type books are usually quite popular. Maybe I'm not really being mean at all; perhaps I'm just giving my son a writing career, and lots of stories to include in his tell-all book.

And maybe someday, I won't have to just hear him grouse about my mothering mistakes; instead, they'll be immortalized on the New York Times bestseller list, and I can read all about them.

Or maybe I'll just play the drums at 2 a.m. tonight and see how little Mr. Passive-Aggressive likes that!