That's not my dinner table. My little boys sit down with dirty hands, dirty shirts, and hair set in all kinds of sweaty directions. My hubby is usually still wearing his work uniform with stress all over his face. Me? A mama whose hair looks like a whole bunch of matted carpet trying to keep baby girl from throwing her food overboard. Our table is set with mismatched dishes on a surface that's half covered with school stuff. Paper napkins are balled up in the middle of the table from the last time one of the kids grabbed a napkin and got too many and put them back in a kid kinda way (sigh).
Sometimes all I can get on the table is a brown colored casserole of some sort sans a veggie, side dish, or any other accompaniments. At least it's usually delish and easy for all of us to shovel into our mouths while catching up on each other's tough days.
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| Ezra set the table on this particular day. He insists on pulling out the candles every time he does. |
There we are. That's us. I sit there exhausted with my exhausted husband and my hyper kids that can't stay in their seats and my over-tired baby girl who missed her afternoon nap... again. Those cute dirty faces staring back at the tired ones barking orders at them. The little faces that won't be little for very long. My husband's gentle hand on my back as I voice my frustrations about which kid did what that day. "Me and you," he says. "Me and you," I say back. One of the boys asking for more casserole and complimenting his mama. "This is good. You make the best casseroles Mom." The knowledge that we'll all be back at that table again, God willing, the next evening - still dirty, still tired and stressed, hungry all over again. Dirty faces and tired faces all there together at the dinner table. I like that. That's nice.
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