I have my fantasies the same as any woman. Sure, they’ve changed over the years. The fantasy of an exotic vacation getaway has been traded for the fantasy of going to the bathroom without any little hands trying to pick the lock. The fantasy for love at home is replaced with the hope that we can get through the latest brawl without a trip to the ER. And the fantasy of a Pinterest home, complete with white trim, custom floors, and that perfect paint color has been replaced with the dream of a clean kitchen table.
That last fantasy is the one think of most often. It’s the one I daydream about day after day as I stand at the kitchen sink, averting my eyes as long as possible from the landfill that is my kitchen table.
That last fantasy is the one think of most often. It’s the one I daydream about day after day as I stand at the kitchen sink, averting my eyes as long as possible from the landfill that is my kitchen table.
Today, I go so far as to take a picture of the sight. The baby is napping, a miracle in itself for all the noise and chaos his three big brothers are making. One is blasting a string of warm-ups on the saxaphone, the others chasing each other in a game of tag, and I stand at the stove, adding a bit of extra water to the spaghetti sauce, hoping to stretch the leftovers one more night.
As the sauce bubbles, the noodles reaching al dente, I know I can’t put it off any longer.
I have to face it—the beast that hovers over me every minute of the day, defying me to fight it.
I turn toward it, shoulders hunched and heavy. I face the complexity of my foe, like a beast with limbs that keep reproducing. As soon as I chop off one arm, another will re-appear, and it will go on day after day for the rest of my foreseeable existence.
“You will not be the death of me. I will defeat you someday, and I will live to tell of what I have overcome,” I think as I stare at the picture I just took.
Where to begin, I ask as I set down the camera. With the glob of oatmeal cemented to the table top? The pre-algebra book that I asked to be put in the cubby three times already? The lunch plate with dried-on mustard and sandwich crusts from four hours ago? The rubiks cube, the other rubiks cube, the gummy vitamins, the spoon with a melted handle, the pile of scriptures left out from morning study, the honey jar (sticky as slab of wallpaper paste), or perhaps the lonely sock, out of its package for less than a week and already missing its partner.
As the sauce bubbles, the noodles reaching al dente, I know I can’t put it off any longer.
I have to face it—the beast that hovers over me every minute of the day, defying me to fight it.
I turn toward it, shoulders hunched and heavy. I face the complexity of my foe, like a beast with limbs that keep reproducing. As soon as I chop off one arm, another will re-appear, and it will go on day after day for the rest of my foreseeable existence.
“You will not be the death of me. I will defeat you someday, and I will live to tell of what I have overcome,” I think as I stare at the picture I just took.
Where to begin, I ask as I set down the camera. With the glob of oatmeal cemented to the table top? The pre-algebra book that I asked to be put in the cubby three times already? The lunch plate with dried-on mustard and sandwich crusts from four hours ago? The rubiks cube, the other rubiks cube, the gummy vitamins, the spoon with a melted handle, the pile of scriptures left out from morning study, the honey jar (sticky as slab of wallpaper paste), or perhaps the lonely sock, out of its package for less than a week and already missing its partner.
I groan and I ask myself the same question I ask every day at this point. To call in backup or not to call in backup? Calling them in means interrupting what they’re working on, listening to their complaints, their pleas for another five minutes, their excuses for why they can’t come right now.
It would be so much easier to do this myself, but for that matter I could have done it hours ago rather than let it sit here all day. But since that’s never going to teach the boys responsibility, I lift my shoulders and I recruit.
The crusts are tossed in the trash, the pre-alegbra book finally makes its way to the cubby, the honey jar gets wiped down so it is once again shiny and smooth, and the sock joins the club of lonely others, all missing their matches.
Plates are set out, the spaghetti is brought over, cold now from sitting for so long. Cups are filled, veggies are served—no wait, we forgot to make a veggie. Oh well, the vitamins will have to work extra hard tonight. Prayer is said, and we hardly have the spaghetti on the plates before the first bathroom joke is uttered.
After dinner, the table hands me another arduous task—that of teaching my six year-old to wipe it. I could do it myself—it would only take me a minute, but then he wouldn’t learn, I remind myself. I try not to cringe as I watch the crumbs miss his hand and land on the floor, the noodles smash into the cloth and the drips of spaghetti sauce glaze the entire table top as his six-year old hands push the cloth along.
It would be so much easier to do this myself, but for that matter I could have done it hours ago rather than let it sit here all day. But since that’s never going to teach the boys responsibility, I lift my shoulders and I recruit.
The crusts are tossed in the trash, the pre-alegbra book finally makes its way to the cubby, the honey jar gets wiped down so it is once again shiny and smooth, and the sock joins the club of lonely others, all missing their matches.
Plates are set out, the spaghetti is brought over, cold now from sitting for so long. Cups are filled, veggies are served—no wait, we forgot to make a veggie. Oh well, the vitamins will have to work extra hard tonight. Prayer is said, and we hardly have the spaghetti on the plates before the first bathroom joke is uttered.
After dinner, the table hands me another arduous task—that of teaching my six year-old to wipe it. I could do it myself—it would only take me a minute, but then he wouldn’t learn, I remind myself. I try not to cringe as I watch the crumbs miss his hand and land on the floor, the noodles smash into the cloth and the drips of spaghetti sauce glaze the entire table top as his six-year old hands push the cloth along.
When he has done his best, I send him up to brush his teeth. I get out a clean cloth and go over the table again, enjoying a rare glimpse at the clean table. But then I hear the sound of water splashing and I turn to see the bathroom door wide open.
“Not again,” I cry as I run to find the baby with the smile of his life, splashing both hands in the toilet. As I wash him up, I add to my list of fantasies—bathroom doors and toilet seats that close automatically.
Its not until the kids are in bed that I check my phone and get a good look at the picture I snapped earlier. Ha! You nasty beast, I think as I look at the disastrous picture. I smile knowing that for the moment everyone is in bed and the table is actually clean. “We defeated you again.” But as soon as the words are thought my shoulders sink again with the realization that we have to do it all over again tomorrow.
Yes, by the time the baby is strapped in his high chair tomorrow, the table will be layered again in the evidence of our lives. But somehow, in the quiet—without the sound of the saxaphone, the fighting and bathroom jokes, I see the table in a different light.
“Not again,” I cry as I run to find the baby with the smile of his life, splashing both hands in the toilet. As I wash him up, I add to my list of fantasies—bathroom doors and toilet seats that close automatically.
Its not until the kids are in bed that I check my phone and get a good look at the picture I snapped earlier. Ha! You nasty beast, I think as I look at the disastrous picture. I smile knowing that for the moment everyone is in bed and the table is actually clean. “We defeated you again.” But as soon as the words are thought my shoulders sink again with the realization that we have to do it all over again tomorrow.
Yes, by the time the baby is strapped in his high chair tomorrow, the table will be layered again in the evidence of our lives. But somehow, in the quiet—without the sound of the saxaphone, the fighting and bathroom jokes, I see the table in a different light.
Looking at the picture again, I notice the jar of honey, fingerprinted and dripping with sweetness. It was a gift from a friend, a reminder that I am not alone in all the craziness. I see the scriptures and remember our family time this morning. It was rushed, but we read a scripture together before the boys left for school. The lunch plate—how blessed we are to have food. The pre-algebra book: it reminds me how hard my son is working, how much he has grown. He is in middle school now, and I remember so clearly when he was the one in that high chair. The vitamins—we are healthy.
Someday it will be gone, I realize. The unmatched socks will likely remain, but the Rubik’s cube, the fingerprints, the hugs and high fives and voices that fill these walls will be gone. And the table will be empty, and suddenly I wonder how I will bear it.
_________________________________
I'd love to hear from YOU! Is your kitchen table an adventure too? Leave a comment below, or better yet send me an e-mail with a picture attached so I can see your kitchen table adventures. If you're willing to share your table picture publicly, please e-mail to [email protected] and I will post your pictures below.
Someday it will be gone, I realize. The unmatched socks will likely remain, but the Rubik’s cube, the fingerprints, the hugs and high fives and voices that fill these walls will be gone. And the table will be empty, and suddenly I wonder how I will bear it.
_________________________________
I'd love to hear from YOU! Is your kitchen table an adventure too? Leave a comment below, or better yet send me an e-mail with a picture attached so I can see your kitchen table adventures. If you're willing to share your table picture publicly, please e-mail to [email protected] and I will post your pictures below.