Table For One

Tuesdays are tough around here. "Early out day" translates to more kids home for much longer so why not schedule six extracurriculars to fill the void... Ergh. After hosting a few playdates, too, and squeezing everyone in for the three hour shuttle around town, it was home to the tornado. It was all I could do to not lock the kids upstairs to clean up the Legos and take their showers while I cooked a comfort food we all miraculously will eat without complaining: spaghetti.

Everyone was tired (especially me), and I knew that even with this acceptable meal choice, there would be the usual whining, spills, and gentle manner reminders ("It's called a napkin!!!") that frequent households across America every 6-7pm. Fine, I'll admit it--I hate dinner time. I hate cutting other people's food, I hate all the "Ew, blechs!", I hate the bribery required to get little people to eat green objects that inevitably end up on the floor for the imaginary dog because their mean mom won't get them a real one.

The dinner was done before the kids upstairs were. And there I sat, alone in the kitchen, Natasha Bedingfield rallying me toward brighter days from the iPod dock, the spaghetti and salad ready.

So I did it. I sat down. And ate. BY MYSELF. The guilt seeped in, the "What kind of mother am I's?" drummed louder, the self talk about my selfishness reverberated from every pot and pan in the room. I listened to all the little voices and did what every mother should do in a case like this: I got seconds.