Setting the Table
Back when it was just my husband and I, setting the table was a quick, easy task accomplished while cooking dinner, perhaps in between stirring the pasta and uncorking the wine. Now that we have three children, it’s a somewhat different scenario.
First of all, wine is a luxury only afforded on evenings where there are no children present. These occasions are few and far between. Pasta, instead of being tossed with a sauce delicately seasoned with asparagus and mushrooms, consists of two choices: spaghetti, or mac and cheese. But I digress.
So, at about 1 hour before dinner, I start assembling ingredients on the counter. In the process of taking the ingredients out of the refrigerator, I am interrupted a few times by my 13 month old, who has displayed a distressing fascination with the condiments in the refrigerator door. You haven’t lived until you turn from the stove to witness your baby holding a bottle of hot sauce, with the contents dripping down the front of his shirt. (At first glance, it looked like blood. My blood pressure spiked so fast I’m surprised I didn’t have blood come gushing out of my temples.)
In the course of chopping and assembling food (ok, I admit it, I watch the food network channel) I stopped numerous times to move the sharp implements out of the reach of small fingers. My oldest is doing his homework (did I mention he’s in Kindergarten?!) at the kitchen table while my middle child colors beside him. I move a few crayons out of the way to make room for the plates, cutlery, etc.
MOMMY! “I was using that!” OK, sorry, sorry. I move the crayons back. I notice the table needs to be wiped off again, owing to an afternoon snack involving honey. I take the plates I’ve managed to place on the table off again. I wipe the table, careful to avoid the emerging masterpieces.
MOMMY! What? What? What? The baby is reaching toward the stove. I drop the plates and lunge to rescue our infant. Hot, hot, I tell him. He looks at me, grins, and toddles off. I stir the pasta, stir the spaghetti sauce, and make my way back to the table. I’m waylaid by my middle son, who wants a horsey ride on my back. With the 30 pounds of extra weight strangling the air out of my throat, I step around my youngest child to admire my oldest’s homework efforts.
MOMMY! What? What? The baby is reaching for the oldest’s homework. “Get him off! He’s not allowed to help with my homework!” I put the baby in his highchair with a few cheerios, hoping he’ll stay amused until I can get dinner on the table. I go back to the stove and stir the pasta and the sauce again. I gather up the dishes and make my way back to the table. My middle child is hopping up and down, doing the dance any self respecting in-the-middle-of-toilet-training-my-child mother has come to recognize. I drop the plates and take him to the bathroom, hoping this will be the moment when he (finally) gets it.
We get back from the bathroom, and I let my youngest out of his high chair, as he is restless and dinner hasn’t even begun yet. I wrestle all three children into the bathroom to wash their hands before dinner. The timer for the pasta goes off, so I run back into the kitchen to drain the pasta. While I’m doing that, my youngest toddles in, splashed from head to foot with water from the sink. I pick him up and take him to get on some dry clothes.
MOOOOMMMMMY! What? What? My oldest son is finished washing his hands, but my middle son has his feet in the sink, and is performing some arcane hygiene ritual which requires water all over the floor. I dry the baby off, dry my middle child off, then go dry off the bathroom floor. The timer goes off for the sauce.
I get everybody back to the table, turn off the sauce, and throw some dishes and cutlery somewhere in the vicinity of everyone’s place at the table. The door opens, signaling my relief is on its way.
By the time my husband sits down, the pasta is stone cold, the sauce singed, parmesan cheese is mingling with the cheerios on the floor, and the baby is definitely restless in his highchair. By now, I need a glass of wine.
But hey – I set the table.
First of all, wine is a luxury only afforded on evenings where there are no children present. These occasions are few and far between. Pasta, instead of being tossed with a sauce delicately seasoned with asparagus and mushrooms, consists of two choices: spaghetti, or mac and cheese. But I digress.
So, at about 1 hour before dinner, I start assembling ingredients on the counter. In the process of taking the ingredients out of the refrigerator, I am interrupted a few times by my 13 month old, who has displayed a distressing fascination with the condiments in the refrigerator door. You haven’t lived until you turn from the stove to witness your baby holding a bottle of hot sauce, with the contents dripping down the front of his shirt. (At first glance, it looked like blood. My blood pressure spiked so fast I’m surprised I didn’t have blood come gushing out of my temples.)
In the course of chopping and assembling food (ok, I admit it, I watch the food network channel) I stopped numerous times to move the sharp implements out of the reach of small fingers. My oldest is doing his homework (did I mention he’s in Kindergarten?!) at the kitchen table while my middle child colors beside him. I move a few crayons out of the way to make room for the plates, cutlery, etc.
MOMMY! “I was using that!” OK, sorry, sorry. I move the crayons back. I notice the table needs to be wiped off again, owing to an afternoon snack involving honey. I take the plates I’ve managed to place on the table off again. I wipe the table, careful to avoid the emerging masterpieces.
MOMMY! What? What? What? The baby is reaching toward the stove. I drop the plates and lunge to rescue our infant. Hot, hot, I tell him. He looks at me, grins, and toddles off. I stir the pasta, stir the spaghetti sauce, and make my way back to the table. I’m waylaid by my middle son, who wants a horsey ride on my back. With the 30 pounds of extra weight strangling the air out of my throat, I step around my youngest child to admire my oldest’s homework efforts.
MOMMY! What? What? The baby is reaching for the oldest’s homework. “Get him off! He’s not allowed to help with my homework!” I put the baby in his highchair with a few cheerios, hoping he’ll stay amused until I can get dinner on the table. I go back to the stove and stir the pasta and the sauce again. I gather up the dishes and make my way back to the table. My middle child is hopping up and down, doing the dance any self respecting in-the-middle-of-toilet-training-my-child mother has come to recognize. I drop the plates and take him to the bathroom, hoping this will be the moment when he (finally) gets it.
We get back from the bathroom, and I let my youngest out of his high chair, as he is restless and dinner hasn’t even begun yet. I wrestle all three children into the bathroom to wash their hands before dinner. The timer for the pasta goes off, so I run back into the kitchen to drain the pasta. While I’m doing that, my youngest toddles in, splashed from head to foot with water from the sink. I pick him up and take him to get on some dry clothes.
MOOOOMMMMMY! What? What? My oldest son is finished washing his hands, but my middle son has his feet in the sink, and is performing some arcane hygiene ritual which requires water all over the floor. I dry the baby off, dry my middle child off, then go dry off the bathroom floor. The timer goes off for the sauce.
I get everybody back to the table, turn off the sauce, and throw some dishes and cutlery somewhere in the vicinity of everyone’s place at the table. The door opens, signaling my relief is on its way.
By the time my husband sits down, the pasta is stone cold, the sauce singed, parmesan cheese is mingling with the cheerios on the floor, and the baby is definitely restless in his highchair. By now, I need a glass of wine.
But hey – I set the table.
posted by Kirsten at 1:35 AM
1 Comments:
You're making this up. No way! And yes, dear, you are scaring the single people. Keep it going - hubby and I are more vigilant than ever with our birth control!
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