I’m sitting in my den with a load on my mind. DH is laying down, not feeling well, my teen and adult sons are playing video games, and I’m feeling particularly passive aggressive.
My writing time today was spent fighting traffic and grocery shopping. The van was emptied out, and now cloth bags, full and empty, litter my kitchen floor. Chili sits partially assembled in a pot, missing a vital ingredient. The diced tomatoes I thought to use are unusable, and frankly I’m too exhausted to go out and get more.
A ready to cook meat loaf by Sprouts is now the meat entree’. It’s waiting to go in, but I’m tired and feeling abandoned by my kids.
The garbage needs to go out, dirty dishes lay about, sprouted after I cleaned. I was told by one son that he would pick up his stuff, laundry laying in a chair, old dishes, etc. Not yet though.
I’m just not feeling the team spirit here. Eventually my husband will drag himself out of bed, and pitch in. He’s willing to help out all the time, and does. The kids, will if nagged, but it’s Christmas, and I don’t want to nag anyone.
I hate cooking, despite collecting cookbooks, after one too many nights of shopping, cooking, then cleaning. The kids don’t get it, and suddenly a lot of take-out’s on the horizon until they go back to college.
Years ago when multi-generational homes existed, the meals were shopped or grown, cooked, and cleaned up by multiple hands. It really is too much for one person, and yet it happens.
When I was a kid in a single parent household, we often ate after 10 pm. My mom taught school and dinner was often late. I look back and wish I’d tried to help, instead of waiting to be fed like a goldfish.
Maybe one day my kids will too. For now I smell half-cooked chili, and sit waiting.