The Grilled Cheese of Life

It's a rare thing to sit down to a perfectly grilled cheese sandwich. Usually I forget it's cooking--sizzling away on my always-on-the-stovetop cast iron pan.

Then I smell the smoke. Yeah, usually.

But not today. Today it was divine. Lightly crusted brown, on Paul's Bakery's perfect grainy sandwich bread. And I stuck in nearly two full slices of processed cheese. None of this real cheddar for the perfect grilled cheese. No-sir-ee. Artery clogging processed.

And ohhhhh, it's good. Just the right crunch. Just the right amount of goo stringing out with each bite.

I take my time nibbling off the edges. Getting rid of them really. I'm anticipating the middle of the grilled cheese. Ohhhh, yeah. And just as I'm mashing the middle softness between my tongue and the roof of my mouth, I see him coming. Wondering why he wasn't invited to the goo party. At one year old, baby son knows a good thing when he sees it. And he wants some. Of mine! This sucks. I endured the nutty crust, only to have to share the best part with my slobbering boy. Not the prettiest side of motherhood. But I share. Reluctantly.

Do I spend my life like this? Forcing down the stuff I know I gotta get through before I indulge in the good parts? So instead of happily laying out his favourite lingerie...I'll do it after I lose 20 pounds. I'll pack up the kids and visit the neighbour I've been missing...when the vacuuming is done. Spend time chatting with my Lord...when I've got no kids around to bother me.

Do I slog through mediocrity and never quite reach the good stuff? Too often, I surmise.

So out with the bad habits. Oh sure, I'll have to munch an occasional crust. But I want the middle. First. Often. Cuz life is too short.