It’s Shake ‘n Bake, and I Helped

Joe Berkowitz was actually not all that instrumental in making dinner, probably because he’s in kindergarten.

That's Taylor Momsen FROM GOSSIP GIRL.

Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, doodle bug. Everybody knows the baking part is infinitely more complex than the shaking part. Those pork chops don’t magically become edible just because you fling them around for 30 seconds. I’m not going to sugarcoat it: you didn’t really help all that much. I guess it depends on how you define “help.” Perhaps you’re getting your words mixed up. If by “help” you mean “destroy the kitchen counter,” then yes, you were clutch in the making of this meal.

If we’re being honest, though, you actually hindered more than you helped. Dinner took twice as long because I had to make sure you didn’t suffocate yourself with that stupid shake bag or get second-degree burns from leaning against the stove again. Mommy had a trying day and she doesn’t need the aggravation. She certainly doesn’t need you taking all the credit. Your contribution to dinner was cosmetic at best. I had it pretty much under control. This wasn’t the first meal I’ve cooked in my life, if you can believe that. I think I can handle prep work that demands all the finesse of a snow globe. 

You don’t see me bragging every time I help you make something. You were completely hopeless with that Easy-Bake Oven until I stepped in, but I didn’t go around telling the whole world about it like Page Six. I also seem to recall someone asking for help when she lost her floaties in swim class. Meanwhile Jen Folsom’s daughter, the mutant, is swimming circles around the entire class and making us both look like a-holes. You should’ve heard yourself — “Mommy! Mommy!” — like when Tony iced the Bevilacqua kid in season two of The Sopranos. But what else is new. 

Do you think it’s easy taking care of this house, getting dinner ready, and also keeping myself sexy for your father? I could use an extra hand with some things besides pork chops, you know. Where do you go when it’s time to swing a vacuum through that disaster you call a room and Mommy has an appointment to wax her bikini zone? Oh, that’s right — you’re in kindergarten, without a care in the world. Then you have the gall not to run in and pick up prescriptions at the pharmacy because “Mr. Winslow is scary.” I always have to park the car and pick up Daddy’s boner pills myself. Daddy needs a little help too, it turns out.

Actually, I don’t think you’ve ever helped. Things were just much simpler before you were born. This wasn’t always a sham marriage. We were happy once. I was a size 4. Your daddy was insatiable. It might not seem like it now, but I had dreams. I was going to be somebody. I guess we all have to make sacrifices, though. That’s why I’m here with you in this disgusting, wood-paneled kitchen instead of out there following my bliss. That’s how you helped. The way that Brutus helped Julius Caesar: that’s how you helped me. 

What’s that? You don’t know who Julius Caesar is? Maybe I should explain it to you, the way I have to explain everything to you, all the time, so the kids in your class don’t think you come from some flea-ridden nightmare clan in the Ozarks. I didn’t ask for this. Not for any of it. All I wanted was to keep you busy while I made dinner. Now there are breadcrumbs all over the house like fucking Hansel and Gretel and mommy needs an Ambien. So thanks for all your help, darling. Thanks for nothing.