Yep hanging on by a thread. Laundry had piled up again, teenager has life problems, girl preteen high lows are getting to me, the middle child has middle child problems the five year old is a wild uncontrollable spirit and the baby he smiles but is just a devious as his sister. And there goes my coffee, all over the kitchen table.
I’m trying to feed the baby and he squawking as usual then the dog barks and scares the baby and myself, I get up to investigate and I spill my coffee on the kitchen table among the papers, the baby’s food and clean laundry and what ever else is on the table. I sigh, I digress, these days are days I feel like throwing in the towel. I cry for a hot minute, get mad and take a picture because I see the blog post forming in my mess.
I walk in the house a few days later and I want to cry again and then get mad because I leave for a couple of hours and when I return the house is a messier than when I left it!!! How the fuck does that happen? I’m confused. Its as if someone snaps their fingers and poof its Harry Potter gone all wrong. Does anyone care at all? I again want to throw in the towel and all of the sudden I’m craving a cigarette worst then ever. In a year and a half I have not thought about smoking not till this moment. I sit outside on the steps and pretend I’m having one, because this is what I would have done anyway. The two other children with 4 legs now come up to me with slobber, wagging tails and practically push me off the steps, they are just like the humans in the house; they require the same attention and make a mess just as bad as the kids do. They nudge me right off the steps and I go pick up the random things around the lawn. I figured out where all the missing socks, girls underwear and my own under garments end up. No wonder I’m losing my mind.
I take a deep breath count backwards from 5 to try and change my perspective. I walk back in the house and I find myself counting backwards from 5, five more times. I am now just trying to go hide but every where I try to hide is a mountain of chores to be done. The laundry has piled up again, the bedroom has become a collection point and it just seems that every space is taken up by more stuff. Baby stuff, papers, kids toys, clothes, blankets, books, random “why am I choosing to keep this” shit. I feel as if the whole house is falling down around me like a nightmare. I finally count back one more time and holler at the kids… “it’s time for baths!” I scoop up the baby and get him ready for a bath. I must press on.
As I stare at the baby and smile and look at the collection of things along my Kitchen Window sill I think of her. At the end of the day the only person I want to talk to is gone. She always had such perspective, she always knew what to say, even if I didn’t like what she said, yet most importantly she always had a way of making light of the situation. She always had a story or could completely relate and eventually she would laugh at me hysterically.
So Each day I return to the Kitchen Table, with the crumbs left behind, the infinite laundry piles, the papers I cannot seem to throw away and overwhelming feelings of nostalgia for her. I think about what it means to have the kitchen table. It means that its standing tall and straight, its holding all the things that I cannot, it can be wiped clean after each use and it can collect our tears when they fall. It embraces the hot cup of coffee, its the glitter catch before recitals, its the base for when we pound out our anger, and its the trampoline for all the little Legos that go flying when they hit the solid surface and spring to life off the table. It’s the step ladder to curiosity about the light above and it’s the place we all commune about the day. Even the dogs like the table they lay under it when they are tired and stand at attention when its dinner time.
I reflect back on the kitchen table it has always been the place where she and I would talk. It is so much more than a place to gather, it gathers everything we give it. It is after all, the kitchen table.
Kris's Khaos 