Nightly Routine

Why is the mother always the last one to eat?

“Dinner's ready!”

My brood flocks in; my husband and four children. The fifth is still “baking,” one hand is on my huge abdomen as I continue stirring the pan on the stove.

“Mom! I need a fork.”

“Mommy, I want some milk!”

Irritated, I grab a handful of forks from the dishwasher and throw them on the table. I tell my son to get his sister some milk.

My husband tries to compliment my cooking but it comes out sounding rote.

Having gotten everything on the table, I see that most of it has already been divvied out. Frustrated, I start my nightly rant.

“Come on, you guys,” I huff, “I haven't even sat down yet and the food's almost gone!”

Everyone mutters a “sorry.” I glare at my husband; he's of the mindset that “Dad gets the lion's share.” I serve myself what's left. That's when I notice that there are no more clean forks. I slam my plate down and go to the sink.

Before I can even finish washing a fork, someone is complaining again.

“I don't like this...”

“Then make yourself a sandwich!” I snap.

As I prepare to settle into my chair, the baby throws his cup to the floor. The leak-proof lid pops off, splashing milk everywhere. I curse under my breath.

I finish cleaning up the milk and get the baby a new cup. I turn circles in the kitchen, trying to remember where I set my fork down. Fork finally in hand, I collapse at the table. The kids bolt from their chairs, leaving behind their plates. Hubby plants a quick kiss on my head and goes down the hall to the bathroom.

Blessedly, I am the last one to eat.


"Daily Flash Fiction Challenge"   [13+] by Arakun the Twisted Raccoon