was lying on my bed this morning nursing a head cold, stressing about my sick kids, and having to go to work later when the macaroni incident overflowed my brain like a pot of boiling pasta water.

It’s a heart-wrenching shame that my ex and I can’t co-parent more copasetic than we do; he can work from home, and it’s on days like today that I wish we were capable of a more flexible co-parenting game plan. But I’ve learned over the years that fluidity is drastically one-sided regarding my fellow teammate. (i.e., threesomes with other women and him going out on dates with “friends” were acceptable. But I was accused of cheating when I published a story for a publication with a debonair male editor who loved my work.)

Anyway, back to the cheesy situation at hand: The Macaroni Incident

It was the year 2021. My ex and I weren’t at the peak of our divorce proceedings; nevertheless, emotions were still running high. If I recall correctly, some may say tempers were redlining on one side in particular.

At the time, I was managing full-time school, part-time work, and the heftiest load of heartache (and homework) I had ever experienced. I was also navigating my way around another foreign concept: child custody. I fought like hell to be awarded more time with my kids since that was how it had always been. But at the end of one particular day, when it was time for that inevitable custody exchange, I finally accepted this was the new normal.

However, I was unwilling to let go of doing my very best to meet my kids needs whether they were with me or not.

I had just got home from work and had a small enough window between arriving home and their dad picking them up to make them a quick snack, grab a Gatorade Zero out of the refrigerator, and send them on their way. That day, and at the last minute, as kids like to do, my daughter asked me for a bowl of mac and cheese, her all-time favorite food. All I wanted was to make her that bowl of creamy macaroni and cheese to warm her belly before I didn’t see her for a few days. But I think being a good parent is sometimes saying, ‘I’m sorry, I can’t, but I can…’

I knew there wasn’t enough time to boil the pasta and put together a hearty mac and cheese bowl for my daughter. So, naturally, I did the next best thing in my mom’s mind: I sent not one but two boxes of Kraft macaroni and cheese with her, confident that her dad, my co-player in this parenting game, would pick up where I left off and she would finally get her bowl of velvety mac and cheese.

The following week, when the kids and I arrived home at my parent’s house, I was helping my daughter get her bags when I heard the unmistakable sound a box of dry pasta makes when you shake it.

I paused for a second, confused and naïve to the gnarly ego bruising I had just inflicted on my ex by sending two boxes of macaroni and cheese to his house for our daughter; it’s not her fault I didn’t have time to make it for her because I divorced her dad.

That was my logic, anyway.

‘Tell your mother I don’t need her to send food over to feed you. I can buy my own food.’ is what my daughter reiterated in her best unsympathetic dad voice when I pulled the two boxes of uncooked pasta from her backpack with my mouth open. Unfortunately, my ex missed the empathy boat and made it all about him (again) instead of making our daughter some fucking mac and cheese.