Abbey returned from Boston last week, which means all four of us are under one roof again. It’s my favorite way to live, and I’m not oblivious to how short of a time we might have left with this arrangement. Summer intensives give me the opportunity to practice what it’s like to be separated, but I breath easier when we’re all together.
However.
We hardly ever eat together during the school year, and during the summer it’s even worse. (I know the research on eating as a family, and I enjoy it so much when we do, but it’s not feasible daily with everyone’s different schedules.) Not only is dinner sometimes eaten four times, occasionally in several different locations, so is lunch. And breakfast is another scattered moment, since some of us don’t eat it, and we’re all waking up at different times.
I don’t mind that my kids make their own food at various times during the day, and Dylan still asks for lunch more than you might expect. I didn’t love the days when I tried to figure out nutritious combinations that everyone would eat.
However.
The kitchen is a disaster ten times a day. Some days, it’s only a disaster four times a day and some days it feels like I’ve wiped the counter twenty times. Mostly, they attempt to clean up after themselves, but a granite counter and warm wood cabinets mean things get missed. The pans and pots and glasses and crumbs and eggshells multiply amongst themselves.
I understand one day I will only have to clean up the messes I make, and people tell me I’ll miss it. It might be true, but right now, I’m not so sure about that.
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