3-DPO

At about 3pm yesterday, I called B up at work and asked him about the 3pm Dinner Preparation Obsession (hereby called 3-DPO) and his response was...

"I never think about it. You do."

So I said, "You never think about it because I do? Well, what if I didn't?"

"Well, if you didn't, I would. Do you want me to?"

"Yeah, I totally want you to. What's for dinner tonight?"

"Um," he said. "I'm actually not going to be home. I've got a meeting until 7pm and won't be home until 7:30. But I can bring something home afterwards. Should I do that?"

"But the kids will be in bed already by the time you get home," I said. "Will we have to wake them up to give them dinner? Do you think they could last that long?"

"Yeah, we'd have to wake them up for dinner. They might not be too happy about going to bed unfed. Maybe you should figure something out for them."

"So I guess I'm figuring out dinner tonight."

"I guess so. What are you going to make?"

mango me

The UPS guy, a young college guy, knocked on the door in the middle of the kids' dinner of mango and frozen matzah pizza and he kept looking at my chest. I gave him a dirty look... I mean, I had two kids hanging on me and he'd totally disrupted dinner, which was a fragile set-up, anway. The pizza had turned out to be the biggest let down after I'd hugely built it up ("Hey you guys! We get to have pizza on Passover! How great is that???) , and the kids were too tired and crabby to eat much, anyway. But I have to admit, I was the tiniest bit flattered, too. So I signed for my package, got the kids back to dinner and went on with my evening. It wasn't until I'd put the kids to bed that I noticed a huge, gooey gob of orange mango sticking out of my shirt. Who knows how it even managed to get there.

I turned 34 yesterday and I feel it.

down home coffee and research

I'm back at work. Full-time. And my life is crazy all over again, but instead of just being incredibly hard, it's actually pretty interesting, and exciting, too. Oh yeah... And it's really, really hard.

I'm back at the same place as before, same type of web publishing role, but a different job that I am really enjoying. A good part-time job never panned out and as our savings started dwindling, this opportunity came up and it felt great to take a job I really wanted instead of one I simply just really needed. Sometimes throughout the day I realize that I'm feeling very energized, and yes, it could be the gallons of coffee that I'm back to consuming, but it also could be that I feel happy and driven and good.

I'm committed to not feeling guilty about being back full-time and not being home wth the kids. But being committed doesn't necessarily mean I've hit success yet. I think I shouldn't have to feel guilty because it's glorious to have good health benefits and to not have to buy groceries on a credit card. I think it's amazing to not fight with B about why he paid the bills before they were absolutely due or not feel guilty about buying the name brand Gardenburgers for the kids (they're really so much better) instead of the gnarly generic ones. And I shouldn't feel guilty for enjoying my time at work instead of being miserable because I have to be there.

But guilt is really slimy and I do feel it.
The kids are still adjusting to being back at daycare full-time and they come home sad, whiny, and clingy. And I come home tired. I've been really careful to not bring home work unless I absolutely have to, and I try to come back ready to totally invest in my evenings with them. But they're so hungry by the time they get home and the thought of giving them a nice, home-cooked meal seems impossible. And I must really be turning into a full-fledged mother (instead of the poser "See me mother!" feeling I've carried around for the past four years) because everyday at about 3pm, I start obsessing about what I'm going to make for dinner. Not that actually cooking dinner is an option. It's more like preparing dinner. Or providing dinner. And sometimes dinner is just downright weird, like the time I totally burnt the halibut and once I realized how awful it was, I had to pull the plates away from the kids ("It's not THAT bad, Mommy," S had said sweetly) and replace them with bowls of cereal.

I wonder why B never obsesses about what he'll provide for dinner... I'll have to ask him about that.

There must be a way to figure this out. Maybe I'll have to start cooking on the weekends and freezing meal portions. Or maybe research a great take-out delivery place. I'm good at research.

All in all, I really think I'm doing the right thing for now. Just got to keep up coffee and research.