Dinner for Two at an Empty Table for Six

It is almost bedtime for the boys and they had been in their bedroom most of the afternoon. When I went in to check on them I walked into their latest project. The Geotrax village. I am not sure why the bedding had to come off the mattresses or better yet why the mattresses had to come off the beds, but this is very typical behavior for them. With each stage of their lives come different kinds of messes. I recently wrote this poem taking a look at the kinds of messes and trouble these boys have gotten into over the years. It actually won a contest and was published.

As a mother of four incredible boys that grow up so quickly, I try to commit to memory snapshots of each juncture in our lives. I have always worked long-drawn-out weekends at the hospital leaving my poor husband home alone with the boys. Adventures, mishaps, blood loss and many other testosterone inspired activities have filled their weekends without me. I have many recollections of the past as well as visions of the upcoming when I imagine myself entering the front door late on Sunday nights to my unpredictable family.

Dinner for Two at an Empty Table for Six

I take a deep breath and open the door

The moving boxes are stacked from floor to ceiling grinning at me as a reminder of the toil that lies ahead. The house is silent. The only unpacked piece of furniture is the brand new dining room set. I smile as picture my ideal imaginary family gathered there. My vision includes a very well dressed young boy and a girl respectfully saying grace. They are holding polite dinner conversation while they pass the risotto. This will come soon enough I assure myself. But for now it’s just us and a candle lit dinner for two at an empty table for six.

I take a deep breath and open the door

I am handed a screeching, leaking, seriously livid little creature. I sink into the new rocking chair and convince him to nurse. I close my eyes and we rock. As soothing for him as it is for me. I have missed this little monster. I continue to rock him long after he and my husband have passed out from an exhausting weekend without me.

I take a deep breath and open the door

Greasy little hand prints cover the inlaid glass. I hear the familiar crunch of cheerios under my feet. It’s impossible to see the sippy cup until I kick it across the floor. Someone tugs on my pant leg. As I bend over to pick him up my water breaks, we turn around and head out the door back to the hospital to bring another little boy child into our lives.

I take a deep breath and open the door

I limbo under the still hanging Christmas lights over the threshold. I tread cautiously as I find myself entering a perfectly laid out matchbox city. I gracefully step over entire parking lots and city blocks as I maneuver my way through the busy metropolis. Soon I am on the city outskirts, leaping over the suburbs and entering the less inhabited countryside complete with farm equipment and animals. I start to lose my footing as I step directly on top of an airplane preparing for takeoff on the runway. With my next step I am lucky enough to find a clear stretch of floor. It’s an eight inch wide river that has saved me. Cursing under my breath I wander upstream past the occasional boat I am exhausted and looking to retreat in the living room when I realize that it has also been taken over by another development. The floor is barely visible through the maze of train tracks, depots and factories. As I stand in the river trying to figure out where to take my next step, I hear the engineer and the architect yelling from the bathroom. Mom, come see the Lego village we built in the bathtub.

I take a deep breath and open the door.

I start to karate kick my way through a four foot high pile of dirty laundry. Just when I have broken through to the other side I feel something cold and wet goosh up between my toes. Watch out mom, the cat threw up again. I promptly turn around and throw up onto Laundry Mountain. I am pregnant again and a little too queasy.

I take a deep breath and open the door

Super hero back packs with the contents spilling out are the obstacles of choice. The floor is covered with crumpled ripped homework that I will no doubt be ironing and taping tonight. After elegantly leaping over the disaster zone I feel a stab to my right heel. I examine the injury briefly then curse the Danish for ever inventing the Lego. In Dutch the word “Lego” must mean “to cause one great pain.” The pain quickly melts away as I am tackled by three wild beasts popping out from hiding. I try to act frightened and not laugh as they growl and snarl at me with their Koolaid mustaches. Their costume choices are very creative. One of them is wearing my leopard print lingerie. I am glad it is finally getting some use.

I take a deep breath and open the door

My only free hand sticks to the door handle. I instinctively pull my hand to my nose for further examination. It’s peanut butter. I reach for the sticky handle one more time and unlatch the door. I step into one of my least favorite activities to clean up. The dreaded camp out. The table and chairs have been adorned with every blanket, towel, sheet and rug in the house. There are four (yes, one more pregnancy and one more healthy boy have managed to sneak into our family) sleeping bags and four exhausted campers passed out under the table. As I look around I imagine that it must have been an eventful day. The real marshmallow roasting sticks and Hershey bars are out. A giant pool of wax with a tiny flickering flame spills out across much of the tabletop. I wonder where the camp director was while the campers roasted marshmallows over the vanilla scented candle. This disturbing thought quickly vanishes as I slide across the floor on an empty plastic wrapper. I guess they also found the graham crackers.

I take a deep breath and open the door

The aroma hits me like a bus, a prison bus to be exact. I consider turning around back outside. I decide to push forward and find the source of the rancid, only could come from a teenage boy, stench. As I enter the living room my radar goes off as I stare into a giant pile of sports gear. I guess it’s football season and I guess no one washed the equipment before putting it away last year. I also guess that this is my hint to please wash it. Hint taken. Three loads later it is washed, folded, and heavily Febreezed.

I take a deep breath and open the door

I cover my ears as I step inside. The smoke detector is ear piercing and almost as loud as the video game blaring from the surround sound. I enter the house unnoticed. Every piece of living room furniture including the area rug is draped with deaf teenage male zombies. Apparently we have become the new hangout house. I quickly find the source of the billowing smoke. It is an oven jam packed with five pizzas one of which is on fire. I am not sure which concerns me more, the fact that no one heard the smoke detector or that my monthly budget now contains a “frozen pizza” category.

I take a deep breath and open the door

All is quiet and the house is untouched, this is concerning. Although not as concerning as the note that lies on the kitchen table.
“Whatever the police say, it’s not true; don’t be mad, we’ll explain later.”

I take a deep breath and open the door.

As I set the mail down on the table another college acceptance letter spills out. I am thrilled but heartbroken. The last chick takes flight. Not to say he won’t return to the nest often with four weeks’ worth of dirty laundry, but gone none the less. One more empty bunk bed. I let a silent tear roll down my cheek as I smile.

I take a deep breath and open the door

Everything is in its place. I glance over at the flickering flame on the dining room table. I close my eyes and smile as I picture my perfect family. Four young men are laughing and kicking one another under the table as they stumble through grace. They are throwing the hot baked potatoes to each other across the table while they carry on a conversation about the latest NFL game. They will be back for the family get together. For now it’s just us and a candle lit dinner for two at an empty table for six.