One day you'll be...

walking through a dusty antique store where someone has snuck in some not antique but certainly rusty, country painted, rooster bedecked, wrought iron hung signs with pithy statements like, "If Mama ain't happy, nobody's happy!" or "Kiss the Cook" or its antithesis "Kissing Don't Last, Good Cooking Do". You'll gently grin because either you're a mama who has been in the not happy state or you're the cook and appreciate the kisses or you just really like good cooking.

But the sign that I hope you'll see and give credit to me for inventing is, "The Kitchen is Closed."

This is a statement that my three boys know well. If given to their natural bent, both in growing and the related eating that causes the growing, the three of them would graze all day long like cows in a pasture with 4 or 7 stomachs. I do not have an Ag degree.

The refrigerator at my house should have a revolving door. I've been personally combating Al Gore's global warming figment by the amount of time the door is open with some progeny in front examining as if under a microscope thereby committing to memory the contents of every shelf, nook and cranny. Unless of course I ask one of them to take out the orange juice--which happens to be gallon sized and always on the door. This type of request though is followed by the dramatic action of opening the door, quickly scanning the magnets on the front of the door, and loudly stating, "I can't find the orange juice. We don't have any."

The pantry receives the same scrutiny followed by oblivious treatment upon requesting items like Green.Beans.on.the.second.shelf.in.front. Nope, we apparently don't have any of those either. But hey, isn't this my candy box from Logan's birthday party when he was 5? My ten year old asks this question with the suspicious implication that his mom might have stuffed that twizzler tootsie roll toting cavity causing timebomb back behind the Ramen, the diced tomatoes and those Green.Beans.on.the.second.shelf.in.front. Goodness no. Can you imagine?

Two of the three are notoriously slow eaters, able to make a one course meal an eight course event held as a progressive dinner over a long weekend. I don't fancy myself a fast eater, if I'm able to actually sit down, but there's only so long you can outlast one of those guys. The whole time I'm watching them nibble, meander and pause over their meal, I'm thinking that the sooner the kitchen is cleaned up, the earlier I can put on my pajamas and then hit the red couch.

Which is why I've wandered through this post to this point of having come up with the saying, "The Kitchen is Closed." They boys know now that this means there is a finite amount of time that Mom will endure eating after she has finished her meal, cleaned up the 4 pots and pans used to cook the meal, made out the grocery list, planned the meals for the rest of the week, and aren't you finished yet? before she will take up the plaintiff's plate, wrap it with plastic and offer it for breakfast. And if this happens to you, then you forfeit any possible dessert.

The other handy time this saying exists is when the grazers descend and desire to mull in and around the pasture, loitering for and soliciting food between established meal times. Nope, the kitchen is closed.

But the third time this saying is used is when the boys choose to sleep in past 8:00 a.m. but still want the three course offering for breakfast. If I'm serving lunch at noon, that cuts my turn around time back to a nursing schedule. And trust me, we're way past that season of life. So, this morning after announcing that the kitchen was closing in 10 minutes whether their pop tarts were toasted or not, my oldest son commented that the kitchen was just like some restaurant because we open at seven and close at nine.

Fine, son. Whatever you need to think to keep my sign up. And where's my tip?