For much of my adolescence, I spent weeknight dinners and weekends with my mother, father, and sister. It gave a feeling of consistency and solidity knowing most nights the whole family would be home, gathered around the table, talking about how the kid next door is a future criminal or how the assistant principal is rumored to have a prosthetic leg. -
Cut to my adulthood with my restaurant manager husband and that is not our reality. We typically get dinner together twice a week and I am typically putting the kids to bed on my own the remaining five. I remember lying awake with anxiety, pregnant, and in a new home alone with our toddler as he worked the closing shift. I remember breaking down when our newborn was two weeks old as my husband left for a manager meeting on his day “off.” I remember having countless arguments over the demands of his job taking him away from his family. -
But now that the crazy pregnancy hormones are flushed out of my system and I am generally getting a full night’s sleep (thank freaking god) I can see the upsides to this life of mine a little more clearly despite my sole dinner companions on most nights being poor conversationalists and having terrible manners. -
On the nights my husband closes, he does not go in until 4 pm. Have you left the kids at home with your husband on a weekday and went to Target by yourself? It’s blissful. There’s no negotiating in the Dollar Spot about what they will get if they manage to behave themselves as I frantically make my way from the dairy section to the diapers hoping they don’t see some flashy toy. There’s no awkwardly placing the cart in the middle of the aisle to be sure little hands can’t reach the shelves. There’s no string of replies to an inquisitive toddler asking “what’s that?” every nanosecond. It’s just me, my cart, and a list of things I know I won’t stick to. It’s damn near therapeutic. -
Continued on the blog! Link in bio.