Dinner is a soul sucking demon. Just as glitter is the herpes of the craft world, dinner is the herpes of the mom world.
You can go all day and not have thoughts of dinner, but it’s lingering, lurking, and mocking you because you know it’s there. It’s waiting to flare up and irritate the living shit out of you. Dinner never goes away. Dinner is forever.
Why? Why is it like this for us? I’m a below average cook with ADHD, but that’s not why I struggle with dinner. I struggle because dinner needs to happen at that time of day when everyone around my house, including me, is losing their marbles. At least that’s my excuse for why everything is either, burnt, undercooked or so full of dog hair that we end up in dinner misery half of the time.
The kids are tattling on and clobbering each other, while fighting over who is breathing too loud. The dogs are awake and sniffing around hoping scraps fall while I cook, and I’m tripping over them and feeling my blood pressure rise. My husband likes to call and ask what I’m doing and what I’m wearing and try to get me into some dirty phone talk. WHAT DOES HE THINK I’M DOING? DOES HE THINK I’M STRUTTING AROUND HERE IN MY BEST SEX PANTIES, PLANNING A BIG OL’ SEX FEST? I also like how solicitors really dig calling at this time of day. FanTAStic.
And then there’s the complaining. The incessant bitching and moaning about the fact that I’m NOT making frozen pizza and macaroni and cheese every night literally makes me want to jump out of my skin, or uncork the vino. Yep, wine helps. Sometimes I do handstands in the kitchen so that the blood runs to my head and feeds my fried grey matter, but that shit hurts now that I’m over 40 and when I do it, I end up falling on top of one of the dogs.
In my case, I’ve been home all day and by dinnertime I need a little personal space and kid-free time. When I was working outside the home, I was tired from the intensity of my job and the long commute. It sucks being the mom at dinnertime. No matter where the mom is all day or what she does with the hours, dinner is still a blistering sore that pops up under stress. Time alone is the unicorn of motherhood; a beautiful yet ridiculous fantasy.
The thing I dislike the most is the guilt. Who am I to crank about HAVING to care for people. I chose this life. Like my kids say, they didn’t ask to be born. I created the little monsters on purpose with the intent of feeding and watering them on a regular basis. I feel guilty when I’m crabby and short tempered. I feel guilty when I don’t have the energy to make a decent meal and I end up throwing Lucky Charms in a bowl and considering the variety of colors a good substitute for NOT having all the food groups represented.
Caring for my family is both an honor and a pain in the ass. There are days when I look at my life and feel confused at how I got to this place. When did I become a middle aged, married mother of two who will not have a sick day unless I’m incapacitated due to a terminal illness OR in the hospital, because as we all know, moms can’t take a sick day.
I’ll bet some nag troll who likes to argue and stir up the pot is reading this thinking that I’m a whiny baby who just wants to fantasize about unicorns and wine. Well DOY! I totally am. Wouldn’t you be irritated if you had herpes, I MEAN DINNER!
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