I am so proud of myself for getting dinner in the oven—a beautiful pork loin chop with baked apples—in time for when my teenage daughter walks in the door hungry. Just what she loves. Or so I think.
“Hey,” I say as she comes in the kitchen.
“Hi. What’s for dinner?” She dumps her backpack on the floor and sits at the table.
“It’s almost ready. Pork and baked apples.”
“Pork and apples? Can’t we have tacos?”
“Um, no. I already made it and it’ll be ready in ten minutes.”
“But I really want tacos. Please just make tacos.” She lays her head on the table as her voice reaches the whining stage with alarming speed.
“No. It’s almost out of the oven.” My voice has already reached the pissed-off stage. “I’m not cooking tacos. I already made dinner.”
“Pleeeease. I was looking forward to tacos.”
“Well, why didn’t you tell me you wanted tacos earlier?”
“You didn’t ask. C’mon, just cook tacos.”
“OH MY GOD. If you want tacos, everything’s in the fridge, cook them yourself!”
I stomp upstairs and slam my bedroom door. I admit, I’m a door slammer. I reopen it. “This is not Princess Cami land,” I yell.
“I know!” she yells back. “If it were, I’d be getting tacos!”