I was late getting off my call.  I try to never let that happen; if you work with me, you know this.  I’m practically Fred Flintstone when the end-of-day whistle blows.  The hours between 6pm and 9pm are absolutely sacred to me as family time, and regardless of how early I need to get up or how late I need to stay up to get work done, it isn’t happening during those special hours.

The door to my office sticks a little, so it makes a loud noise when I yank it open, announcing my exit and summoning Alice from her play in the adjacent room.  She always comes tearing around the corner yelling “Mom’s done workin’!” and I’m convinced there is no better way to be greeted.  Today was no exception, regardless of my lateness.

After getting the daily report and sending the nanny on her way, I had to immediately shift into dinner mode.  We try to eat as close to 6:30pm as possible — routine and family dinner are important.  I’ve even read that kids who participate in a nightly family dinner are more likely to have high self-esteem.  I don’t know if it’s true, but I want the girls to feel – even at this young age – that family dinner is something they can rely on after being without Mom and Dad all day.  We all sit at the table together (Evie pulled up in her high chair), and there are no TVs or electronics.

But while the routine is well-established, it’s not always utopian by any stretch of the imagination.  Sometimes, like today, I’m running late.  Or I plan poorly.  Everyone is overly hungry before I can get something on the table.  Hungry children, and a hungry husband for that matter, aren’t the most cool and collected while they wait.  Sometimes Alice snacked late and isn’t hungry at all.  Since she’s 2, she doesn’t understand why she’d sit at the table with Mom and Dad even if she’s not eating.  She doesn’t want to eat.  She doesn’t want to sit.  And she isn’t afraid to tell you about it.  And sometimes, for no really identifiable reason, it just doesn’t come together the way that it should.  The cosmos aren’t aligned, and the whole thing is a big effort without a lot of immediate reward.

Today, I was battling a hungry mob that was turning fussy in a hurry as well as some potentially poor planning.  A really bad day for the call to run long.  When I finally got the food to the table and David had Alice all strapped into her booster chair and Evie her highchair, we sat.  And then I immediately got back up because Alice had to use the potty.  Five minutes and a lot of fussing later (but I don’t WANT to wash my hands!), Alice and I sat back down.  But there’s no ice in her water.  I bounced back up to grab some ice cubes.  I sat, took a bite of my food, and realized it needed salt.  And the salt wasn’t on the table.  I bounced back up to grab the salt.  I sat just as Evie started screaming.  Where’s the pacifier?  Upstairs.  I bounced back up to run for the pacifier before she deafened us.  I sat. Alice dropped her fork on the other side of the table.  I bounced back up to get her the fork.   I don’t remember every play by play that happened after that, but needless to say we were 15 minutes into dinner and my food was cold before I really even got the second bite.  I felt like I’d been running a sprint since the second my office door opened.

Hurry. Hurry. Hurry!

Finally I sat.  I picked up my fork, let out a deep, releasing sigh, smiled at David, and prepared to eat my dinner.  As I’m raising my fork to my mouth, Alice turns to me and, in a perfect imitation of David and I, she asked: “Soooo, how was your day?”

I laughed.  And laughed again.  A tired but genuine laugh.  It was good, Alice.  It was very good.