I think back to how it was when Curtis and I first got married. Hot. Steamy. Satisfying. We took our time; slow and uninterrupted. Savored the experience, and then went back for more. It was like that every. Single. Night.
But then we had kids. And since they came along? Dinner just isn't the same.
I swear I haven't had a hot meal in at least six years. It's not that I don't cook: every night you can find me slaving away at the stove.*
*Except for the nights when I'm like, "Oops, I forgot to thaw something so here's some cereal."
But the thing is, when I'm done cooking, the kids' food needs to be plated up. So I divvy out equal portions (to avoid the inevitable cries of he got more macaroni than meeeeeee! or why did I get so many carroooooots?). Cut up food for those who aren't old enough to do it themselves, which is nearly everyone. Pass out plates, dole out silverware. Make sure everybody has a multivitamin. Pour drinks. Put them on the table.
Curtis helps me with all this, but it still seems to take forever. And then as soon as I sit down, someone spills something. And as soon as that's cleaned up, someone wants a second helping (which has to be cut up). And then somebody wants a drink refill. And then somebody wants to try pepper on his dinner like Daddy has. And then I realize that nobody has napkins yet everybody needs them. And then my head explodes!
By the time I finally get around to eating, my food is lukewarm at best. And everyone else has gotten such a jump on the meal - especially Curtis who, thanks to habits he picked up in his military Basic Training, eats everything on his plate in like 2.5 seconds - that they're all finished when I'm just beginning. So I either end up sitting there by myself, or eating while everyone stares at me.
I fantasize wildly about the day when they're all old enough to pour their own drinks and dish up reasonably-sized helpings of food without spilling it all over the place.
... Which means I've only got like ten years of cold dinners to go.