Apparently, when you have a baby, the Halloween pressure is kicked up a notch or 10. Starting in like July, everyone wants to know what your baby is going to be for Halloween. (Other than a total buzzkill who requires you to be home at 7pm.) He can’t trick or treat or even eat candy yet, so really a baby at this age only serves one of three purposes on Halloween:
You’ve probably heard it all before: all the amazing and wonderful (and condescending) ways you’ll grow when you have a baby. The new light that will shine upon you, brightening your whole world with a new bounty of knowledge and love only known to those who’ve been graced with the title of “mom” or “dad”.
There’s so much wrong with that, I can’t even begin to cover it, but one thing that’s on-point is that you will learn a lot from your little bundle of poop and spit up. It just may not be the ethereal sense of enlightenment you expected. In my (very limited) experience as a parent, these are just a few of the very important things I’ve learned:
Why yes, kind stranger who drew the short straw sitting next to me on the train, that odor you’re smelling is me. I see you covertly trying to sniff around and identify that odd stench, in hopes of distancing yourself from it. Sorry boutcha, looks like you’re stuck with it for the next 45 minutes.
It’s not my fault, though.
Here’s a secret about me: I never eat vegetables. Not never never, but definitely not as much as I should. And that means neither does the rest of my family, since I prepare most of their meals. But now that a tiny human is dependent on my cooking for his nutrients (NO PRESSURE), I guess I need to get in gear and level-up in adulting. Level 5: Vegetables.
So when this recipe caught my eye on Pinterest (ya know, because it had the word “burrito” in it), I figured I should give it a try. I’ve tweaked it to make it a little simpler, because I don’t know anyone who has time to get fancy with things like “rinsing rice in a fine mesh sieve” (um, what?), and it’s since become one of our family favorites—husband even requests it sometimes, which is unheard of for something without any meat in it.
And best of all: this is a one-pan meal, AKA THE BEST KIND OF MEAL THERE IS.
This blog is served with a heavy helping of snark, which doesn’t always translate appropriately, so I want to be very clear: my baby is very, very loved. Like, obnoxiously so. He’s for sure going to be that overconfident jerk who thinks he can do no wrong when he’s older. (Sorry about that.)
Sure, I make fun of him occasionally (a lot). Yes, I complain about my exhaustion (if you’re not going to whine about how tired you are, are you even a parent?). And yes, I call him names like “monster” and “demon baby” sometimes (okay, almost all the time…). But hey, I bought and paid-in-full for his crazy ass; you better believe I’ve earned my right to a sarcastic comment every now and then.
You see, he was a long time in the making. Over two years, to be exact.