on Thursday. / on Thursdays. (part 2 of 2)

[This portion of the tale was written & posted late Friday night -- that's why it's timestamped past 2am on Saturday!]

We headed back to the house at 4.15, the time we had agreed we would leave because both boys have baseball practice that night (so they need some rest after playing hard in the hot sun and on top of this, I needed to finish cooking).

I was thankful that the kids were as worn-out as I predicted because that meant they sat quietly in the other room without bickering with one another or asking me thirteen million questions to which I can't give an answer that satisfies them.  (Sometimes after-school is brutal for the Crankies.  Half the time it's just cos they miss their dad.)  Perspective.  Context.


I started to develop my own case of the Happies.  I love cooking for others.  I do.  And for these guys?  Where I can pour out all my love and affection into a couple dishes one day a week?  Glorious.

A mac & cheese casserole that has been a hit twice before in this house was now being complemented with bacon.  It sounded good in my head and my meatetarian friend whom I'd texted earlier that day told me the hypothetical combination sounded delicious so I went for it. Aware that the recipe doesn't yield a ton (and aware that I have a hard time eating meals that consist of just one thing), I added a Caesar salad and was particularly pleased with how the homemade croutons turned out.

The kids' dad came home and we did the routine debriefing of our respective days.  I talked more than I expected to because I was feeling more comfortable than I often do.  Tongs in hand, leaning against the counter, I'm talking across the kitchen like I'd talk to any good friend in a comfortable or neutral space.  [This is a blessing.]  Truth: we don't talk like this every day but when we do, when we're both relaxed and unguarded, it's a good day.

My Happies are getting worse; hives are starting to form.  I'm happy that he's sitting down after a hard day.  I'm happy that the kids are happy.  I'm happy that he has the freedom to chat with me, to check his email and to take a shower while dinner is still being moved toward completion.  [And on a side note, God bless the inventor of the crockpot because it was chugging away faithfully while even I was out and about.] The efficiency- and multitasking-obsessed parts of my brain were delighted.

I'm happy that the meal is going to be tasty and a treat for a weekday.  (I later told S that if I could say I had hobbies, cooking for others might be one and so in that context spending a little extra coin on a meal makes sense.)

When I couldn't stand it any longer I had to ask for some insight.  I said I didn't understand why the mac & cheese wasn't done, 40 minutes after it should have been. Turns out I was wrong and it was ready.  I was flustered about the idea of us having to rush to eat before we went for baseball practices: then how much help would I be?

I asked S to do the portioning because I know I'm not good at it, especially for children and especially for children whose stomach sizes I don't know super well.  I took that moment to sit directly in front of the air conditioner, hunched over like I finally realised it had been a long day (after a long day) and that standing between a hot oven and a hot crockpot while under the ungracious skylight was making me a bit warm.


We ate.  It was good.  The boys were in the living room and the adults sat at opposite ends of the kitchen table.  Light conversation turned to deep conversation and my introvert gears started grinding cheerfully in fourth.

Both boys finished their meal without a peep, a complaint or a prompt.  This is a rarity.  It wasn't too spicy, it didn't have too many mushrooms, it wasn't too much food, it wasn't "but I HATE carrots!", it wasn't "can I just eat half?".... it was eaten.  J (10yo) came into the kitchen with two half-forkfuls left on his plate, mmm-ing to himself.  (For whatever reason, he was taking the last two bites while standing at the table next to me.)  I gawked.  He told me, "That was really good, Jesskah," as he went to put his plate away.

I pointed a did-you-see-that? finger after him, looking to S and blurting, "He ate it all!"  (On top of normal picky-child-ness, J had also been finishing up a pair of bananas not forty-five minutes before, and he was warned that if he didn't finish his dinner he wouldn't be going to baseball. I thought he had over-snacked for not the first time but I was wrong.)


I was genuinely surprised.  Zero complaints and zero leftovers.  S assures me with more softness than I might think the statement warrants, "it's really good."


"Huh," I think I said, feeling speechless for a moment, my finger probably still in the air.  I still can't put into words what I was feeling as I processed the look of the empty plate and the sweetness and sincerity in J's voice as he came to pay me a compliment.  I felt _____ that what I had put work into had reached him well.  I mean it meant a lot to me, that moment. J is free enough with his criticism and negative comments that I believe he means his positive ones just as uninhibitedly.


S and I continue our deep, real-life conversation and I'm feeling overwhelmed by all the converging blessings: ease in conversation (I'm being myself!), tasty food, satisfied boys' stomachs & taste buds, pleased & grateful Dad, knowing the secret of the ice cream in the freezer, the cumulative weight of a day that's gone well, and mostly feeling I've made a contribution (a magnificent aligning of ways they are helped/blessed and ways in which I delight to serve).

[Oh also, this is officially the first time I've enjoyed bacon.  As in, I'm glad it was around.  I fear for my future.]

Not too long after, B (6yo) comes in with a twin plate, save three slivers of cucumber which doesn't bother me a bit.  The feeling of being ______ because the boys are happy returns even stronger because it's both of them.  BOTH of them finished and enjoyed their dinners.  [No words for that level of happiness and something akin to humbling.]


S and B leave for their practice fifteen minutes before J and I need to go.  He chills in front of the television while I murder the dishes and try to get my brain back into You Are Responsible for a Child mode.

Phew.  That's a tough one to don at the end of a day, not gonna lie.


We head out and he chatters the whole way, providing the running commentary for the game he's playing on my phone.  I respond to even less of his commentary than normal (because I'm focused on completing a task I've never had before) and he doesn't notice at all.  He keeps chattering and I keep driving.  I am conscious of how neat and flabbergasting it is that J enjoys spending one-on-one time with me.  He's a totally different kid.


We get to the park and the chattering continues, now about baseball and his team and whatever else pops into his head.  He takes the field and I take a seat, feeling the 3-2-1 countdown to the shift in Responsibility and situation dynamics.  I'm hyper-aware of our surroundings as usual when in public with the kids--but I also trust the coach.


J is impressing me with his athletic prowess and my internal gloat and pride bubble up like he belongs to me.  Like it's a natural response.  Like of course I'm proud of him and bristle with undue sensitivity at one of the coach's comments.


Then I started blogging out my day because it was a doozy.