Dinnertime ... 6 Years Later

The Early Riser is more than nine years old. Which is hard for me to believe for a couple of reasons. First, that nine years has gone by since Kim from business school inspired me to start blogging; and second, that the person writing nine years ago was in fact me.

I've gone through an evolution - from b school to corporate American, from my apartment to our house, from dating, to engaged, to married, to being a parent. With it, I'd like to say I've matured both in character and writing style. I traded in flowery language for the straight forward, hyperbole for realism, boasting for complaining, inexpert advice for unanswered questions. I've become a little less 'Lo' and a lot more me. 

If you track my approach to the subject of dinnertime over the years, the evolution is particularly noticeable. I started writing about dinner as an elegant affair every evening. (And it was - gloriously so.) Nine years later, I'll call our evening meal more ... down to earth.  

About a month before we were married (two years into Lo's view on life) I wrote about our approach to dinner for the first time. And although the writing is a little fluffy, the sentiments are real. Peter and I used to plan, plot, and look forward to a beautifully prepared dinner every night. We cherished that time together and lingered over it. As a present day reader, I am downright envious of it.

In the fall of 2012, a year later and about five months before we became parents for the first time, I expressed fears that our 'special time' would face some sacrifices. Nothing dire. Nothing that would take away the integrity of what Peter and I had built. But I was a realist - I'd be prepared (or so I thought.) That evening I had made potato crusted halibut and a french apple tart. Seriously? 

Then I got jolted. Mary came along. I was juggling work, day care pick ups, marathon training, and the fact that I still wanted to get a great dinner on the table every night. I started to find patterns in the menu planning. There were repeats now. Our timing moved from a couple hours to perhaps thirty or forty five minutes. We didn't sit down to debate, laugh, and plan our life ahead. Rather, one of us was seated while the other got a bite after every lap around the house, walking the baby from fussy to sleepy. Five laps later, dinner was usually cold.  

Fast forward to 2017. Another test of dinnertime. Three babies and while I'm not back at work yet, the day to day is crazy enough. I grocery shop as quickly as possible once a week. I have a rehearsed repertoire and a memorized list that goes with it. Fruits, veges, snacks, cereal, and THREE gallons of milk. Pork and chicken (the easy lean cuts which Peter discriminates against for their lack of flavor), bacon (BLTs - fan favorite), more bacon (what about two nights of BLTs?), brats or even hot dogs work, steaks for Sunday night (because they're his favorite), and then how many nights this week can I eek by on scrambled eggs and wine? And what night do I get to go out? Note to self, text Camille.

Cooking is quick. Dinner is quicker. The conversation is a highlight and so necessary, but it's interrupted every two minutes with, 'Mommy, I need more milk.'

Last week though, I experienced something that I hadn't in a while. Dinnertime - the way we used to share it, or at least as close as I've been in a while. 

While my sitter was still here in the morning, I made some dough. While the kids were napping, I mixed up the filling. Peter texted that he was going to be late; I could tell it was a long day for him. That evening, with Mary and Bobby watching TV in the basement and Margaret wrapped like a marsupial against my body, I started rolling out dough, cutting it and stuffing pork dumplings one by one. I fried them in a little peanut oil, adding a flour and water mixture to the bottom of the pan which creates this pancake like bottom to each pot sticker. I made a soy and wasabi dipping sauce and then stir fried green beans. I got out a Pinot Gris we had tasted and loved when we toured the wineries of northern Michigan last fall. And I set the table. In the dining room.

Peter got home, opened the lid to the pot, and said, 'this looks amazing!' His excitement and gratitude, and with it mine, were exactly what dinnertime was all about. It was something that I did for him, but that we both ended up loving more and more. And at this juncture of our life, it makes me a little sad that I can't provide the magic that I used to on a nightly basis. 

***

On Sunday, Peter and I celebrated our sixth wedding anniversary. After a challenging day at home, we thanked Eva a million times over for coming to our rescue so we could go out to dinner. 

I had written a card to Peter that morning and handed it to him after we ordered our cocktails. On the front were Cinderella and Prince Charming; inside was something about life being a fairy tale. I added these words to it: 

Despite ... 

Lots of tears over a sore tongue (Bobby suffered from hand foot and mouth disease all weekend)
Accidents and wet undies 
Stinky poops and spit up  
Sassy pants
Time outs  
Little sleep and littler naps  
Not enough time to sip a glass of wine and enjoy every bite
Not enough time to just be together  
... It's still a fairy tale and I wouldn't have it any other way. 

Life, even at a stage I didn't anticipate nine years ago, is a dream come too. Dinnertime will certainly return. And likely I'll try to make it even better. But I have a feeling at that stage, we'll long for the little kids and chaos around our table. 

Peter, thank you for six amazing years together. You will always be my prince charming.  

And to our newest little princess, happy one month birthday! 

Lo.