Sometimes my microwave feels like a microcosm of my life.
To clarify: Not like this cute, peaceful stock photo.
Sometimes my microwave feels like a microcosm of my life.
To clarify: Not like this cute, peaceful stock photo.
This morning I walked through my house, trying not to see things.
I tried not to see the underwear packaging left on the floor by my two teenage boys. The clothes my daughter left on the bathroom floor. The cereal bowl on the counter of a few floating Honey Nut Cheerios.
So it’s summer, and the kids are home. And my son, who loves to cook and does so frequently, just asked me where the teaspoons are. Two days ago, he asked me to grab him a pair of socks. Yesterday, he asked me to text his friend. And I calmly responded, without snark, that I was not actually his personal assistant. (Okay. Minimal snark.) These requests are pretty frequent in my house.
In April, before I headed to Thailand, said son was swimming at the pool, and accused me of not making lunch for him (we were at a birthday party for one of our other kids. I was fortunate to be in my right mind). My husband tilted his head. “How old are you?”
“Twelve.”
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