Dino Nugget Chicken Parm

Today’s lunch special? Dino nugget chicken parm. Yeah, you read that right—T-Rex meets Italian cuisine. I’ve officially reached a point in life where I’m handcrafting prehistoric chicken into fine dining. Bon appé-freakin’-tite.

This is what auntiehood looks like: turning leftovers into legends, making the weirdest shit fun, and surprising yourself along the way. Those nuggets didn’t know what hit ‘em. Honestly, neither did I.

One day you’re 21, dancing on a bar like it’s a Coyote Ugly audition—body shots, bad ideas, no curfew. The next, you're knee-deep in marinara, plating up dinosaur-shaped protein. And honestly? I wouldn’t change a thing.

I always knew I was creative, but I never expected to use it in that way. This role cracked open a whole part of me I didn’t know was in there. Something softer, sillier, and way more fulfilling than I thought “growing up” could be.

Now I’m the person who turns freezer food into some serious gourmet shit. The one who gets a standing ovation (from toddlers, but still) just for melting some cheese on a dino nugget and calling it “fancy.” And yeah, I’m also the food taster now. Bubs refuses to try anything new unless I take the first bite. Like I’m the royal tester, making sure no one’s out here poisoning the mini king.

And you know what? It’s kinda flattering. At least the kid trusts me.

Sis is the same. She watches everything. That means if I flinch at a vegetable, so will she. If I wrinkle my nose, hers wrinkles faster. So yeah, sometimes I choke down a cucumber slice like I’m being initiated into a secret society, just so they’ll try it too. I act like it’s delicious, even when it’s a lie. Because if I say “Ew, no thanks” every time, that’s what they learn. That trying new food is optional. That veggies are the enemy. That cheese is the only food group.

And that’s how I got here in the first place—untangling years of bad food habits and learning how to give a damn. So I’m trying to shift that narrative, one snack plate at a time.

Sis will ask me for PB&J shaped like stars. I get it! When it looks better, it tastes better. And I know peanut butter and jelly stars are not a health food. Neither are dino nuggets. Neither are Teddy Grahams or Nilla Wafers. But here’s the deal: those things? They’re always riding shotgun with a fruit and a veggie.

That’s my rule. You want stars? Cool. Go get your strawberries and your peas. You want a dinosaur? Great. He comes with carrots. It’s not perfect, but it’s balance. And for toddlers, that’s a damn miracle.

And could it be worse? Hell yes. I could be deep-frying treats on the daily or baking full-on desserts like I’m running a bakery out of my kitchen. But I’m not. They get their little approved sweets, and on birthdays or holidays, they eat cake with the rest of us—no guilt. Just life.

The trickiest part? Drinks.

I’m a Coke head. Coke Zero, to be specific. And I’ve learned the hard way—if I drink it in front of them, they’ll want it. And the older they get, the harder it is to say no. So I stopped drinking soda around them. Not because I’m a saint—because I’m smart. And tired. And outnumbered.

Since then, I’ve basically become a water girlie by default. I still sneak a ginger ale or the occasional orange Fanta, and yeah... I let them have a sip. And then I get hit with, “Can I have some of your spicy orange pop, please?” And I should say no. I should. But that little voice? That tiny, polite yet mischievous energy? It destroys me. She knows it. I know it. And honestly, she earned a sip.

So yeah, parenting-adjacent decisions get made every single day. And I do my best in a world where every label is a lie and everything’s either poison, sugar, or somehow both. I read the back of the box. I try. I make it fun. I survive lunch hour with minimal casualties.

Because this isn’t about being perfect. It’s about showing up. It’s about love and snacks and not losing your damn mind.

And if the road to healthy habits happens to be paved with dino nuggets, PB&J stars, and “spicy orange pop” taste tests... Well, that’s just how Auntie does it.