Dinner

Dinner is never just dinner.

It’s tiny impatient hands pulling at my pant leg while I stand at the stove, and small bodies underfoot every time I turn around.

It’s stepping in the crumbs from the crackers I gave him so he would stop crying for two minutes.

It’s cutting food into small enough pieces and making sure it’s not too hot.

It’s being the last one to finally sit at the table.

It’s my meal interrupted because someone needs a refill, and now a napkin, and now a spill cleaned up.

It’s “please use your silverware” and “keep your hair out of your food”.

It’s sticky hand prints on the table, the chair, the wall, the faucet handle where they wash up.

It’s leftovers to pack up and pots to soak.

It’s dishes to put in the dishwasher.

It’s wiping the table, the highchair, the counter, the stovetop, the floor.

It’s scrubbing the pots clean.

It’s feeling a bit of satisfaction with each area that gets reset for tomorrow.

And later, it’s a snack. In the clean kitchen. Savored alone.