So, the other night I was making dinner. This activity is sometimes an efficient affair, and sometimes a metaphoric dash through a minefield, depending on how prepared/organized/PMS-y I am. On this night, I was stirring and simmering and sauteeing like a pro, almost completely able to ignore the children popping in and out of the kitchen at various intervals. Maggie had her head in the pantry cabinet, calling out "Cake? Cake?" apparently in hopes that a large, frosted yummy would materialize in there. When that didn't happen, she consoled herself by taking out all the boxes of granola bars and standing on them. Twice.
The older children wandered in periodically to say things like "What are we having for dinner? Not that, right? I hate that." and "Can I have a snack?" (No.) "Well, when can I have a snack?" because evidently the act of making dinner does not, in fact, guarantee that food will be coming your way any time soon.
Lucky for them, Aunt Flo had arrived earlier in the day and I was feeling verrry calm, almost Zen-like. Don't like my sweet and sour chicken? Wisdom is not yours today, little grasshopper. Smashed granola bars? Tonight you will not learn the sound of one hand clapping, little monster pants, because I am inhabiting a higher plane.
It's nice, being above it all. And the nicest part about it was that it could so easily have gone the other way, and so often has.
It is no small thing to feel supremely sane.
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