You know what I never thought about as a kid? Dinnertime. Or, really, meals in general.
I mean, I knew we had to buy the food and then cook it to make a meal, but basically as a child food just existed. I never thought about the effort involved in making sure I had three squares a day even though I spent a lot of time helping out in the kitchen. Insomuch as I was present in the kitchen and not doing all the other things children do to fill up their days when they aren’t asleep or actively draining their parents’ paychecks. I think the accepted term is “playing.”
It dawned on me tonight as I puttered around in my kitchen trying to decide what I wanted to do for dinner. I have leftovers, but since I had those for lunch that didn’t seem enticing. I could order out, but then I already have plans to eat out twice this week. The realization that my only real choice was to make something was quickly followed by overwhelming exhaustion from an incredibly long and very frustrating day. And I’m sure on several occasions both of my parents must have been in a similar state, but somehow there was always dinner. Certainly starving me wasn’t an option. At least not if they wanted to keep being my parents. But seriously, I don’t understand how they did it on days like today.
It’s funny how the adults from my childhood seem to handle that whole adulthood thing with ease and yet now that I’m actually one myself I can’t help but marvel at the reality of it. Because, let’s face it, being an adult really stinks sometimes.