I just played with you. all day. We did 18,452 crafts. I squeezed you six oranges, to make juice that you mostly just spit out because you thought it was hilarious. That toast you’re eating? It’s refined sugar free. I baked it. It’s fresh. That’s the smell you comment on when you walk into the house after I greet the bus on your Kindergarten mornings. I made you two meals. I read you eight books. I made you three snacks.
You’re hungry, again.
Then five thirty comes around. You ask me when dinner is going to be ready. You’re obviously starving because you didn’t want to eat the meals I made, or snacks I prepared. You wanted dino-sours, and the chips that Dad hides in the pantry for after you’ve gone to bed.
Ten minutes later, you hear the garage door open. Dad’s home. There’s screaming. There’s shouting. There’s last minute toy picking upping because I’ve finally convinced you that Dad doesn’t want to see a mess. There’s quick words about your day, where you tell him about the centers you did in Kindergarten (that you inform me we’ll talk about later, everyday when I ask you as you get off of the bus and we walk home). There’s more screaming. There’s climbing on Dad. You are oh-my-god-dads-home-freaking out.
Suddenly you realize you’re still hungry. You look at me, and ask what’s for dinner.
They’re right about this mothering thing, it’s a thankless job.