Too Many Cooks

Rumbling constantly, the air conditioning attempts to keep both the heat and humidity at bay, but they manage to seep in through the tired bones of our eighty year old home.  My narrow galley kitchen absorbs the heat like a sponge, challenging me to attempt a meal in the oven.
 

Carefully strategizing, I plan for the week, grasping for ideas that use the crock pot or waffle iron or any other appliance that doesn’t add to the thin layer of sweat that follows us inside after a killer game of hopscotch.

Even lifting the crockpot to shred the chicken filling for our tacos emits enough heat that I rewrap my hair into a ponytail.

Abbey and Dylan are pulling pots and Tupperware out of cupboards to cook at my feet, carpeting the already-miniscule floor with an obstacle course of stainless steel and brightly colored lids.

Abbey pulls open the refrigerator for her water.

I twist around her to grab the salsa.

Dylan pulls open the drawer for a box of macaroni and cheese to shake around and hide in an unrelated cupboard.

I step over him to pull out the taco shells.

Irrationally, my eyes fill with tears.

I dream of an open kitchen, flowing into a dining room or living room where Abbey and Dylan could play, within eyesight but safely out of the way of the hot stovetop.

I dream of a fenced-in yard, far from the main street on which we’re now situated.

I dream of a little desk in a little cubby, where I can write and plan and organize my thoughts when the kids are in bed and Ryan is studying.

I wipe the tears before they fall; these dreams are out of reach for now.  With the plummeting house values and my lack of income, moving won’t be a realistic “to-do” on our list for at least a few years.

Weeks go by when I don’t worry about the shrinking walls, though the overwhelming amount of kids’ stuff needs to be addressed soon, but there are days it consumes me.  I worry that I’m being selfish, sacrificing a job that may have helped us to move sooner. 

Will they resent our miniscule backyard?  Our cramped kitchen?  The way I freak out the moment they get a little too close to the street, cars dangerously close to the curb?

Then Abbey pulls me over to her easel, dragging her little stool in her other hand.

“Mommy.  I LOVE our house,” she exclaims dramatically, without cause or explanation.

My worries will return, but in that moment, I am at peace with our home, even if our house could use some work.

because there's nothing like crushed Cheerio dust to add a little fun to a crowded kitchen

two oven mitts - she means business

pouring my heart out with Shell!