There’s the running outside and breathless requests for dinner. The wandering on white carpets with dusty feet and jelly hands. The “stop touching mes!” and the Miranda Cosgrove CD blaring from the play room. I want nothing more than to unwind with the Real Housewives and a glass of Cab, but it’s time to eat. I butter bread, toast fish sticks, microwave peas. A plebian dinner at best, but it’s all I can manage on this night.
And I think as I turn the oven to 375 degrees: this is what we do. And it’s OK b/c we love and we get by and it’s OK. But just 20 minutes? Can I have 20 minutes? And then it’s time to eat.
Through it all I know in a few short years that pass like comets, I will give anything to have those 20 minutes with my kids just the way they are now.
Jelly hands and all.