I like to think that I’m a good wife.
Patient. Loving. Encouraging.
A good cook.
(The last item being just as important as the first three, if you’re married to a food-lover such as my husband).
But there are moments when the craziness of life just kind of hits me all at the same time, and the end result is usually not pretty. Not pretty at all.
Take last night for example…
I had a pot of homemade chicken stew cooking on the stove (for my Pepere), a three layer cake — made from scratch — just going into the oven (for tonight’s dinner with the in-laws), and a box of eggs out to make an omelet (for me and Nate’s dinner).
Now in a perfect world, the stew would have simmered pleasantly, while the cake gently browned in the oven, while my fluffy omelet slowly cooked… just to give me enough time to whip up a batch of frosting and to chop veggies for the before-mentioned omelet.
But this isn’t a perfect world. It’s reality, people! So my stew started to boil over, just as the oven beeped for my cake, just as the omelet stuck to the bottom of the pan and set off a cloud of smoke that caused the fire alarm to shriek.
And in the middle of this, I froze in the kitchen, unsure of how to respond, when my hubby asked, “Hey, do I have time to watch this show before dinner is ready?”
I think there’s a slight chance that I threw a frosting-covered, wooden spoon at him at about this point in time.
Then I erupted into a tirade about how I’m such a loving wife that I cooked a homemade cake for his family and how I didn’t want him to starve so I was also trying to cook dinner. And all I wanted was a little sympathy… some understanding… and maybe a hired maid and a live-in cook. And here I was being so loving, covered in floor from my toes up to my chin, and he wasn’t even breaking a sweat.
Now is that even fair?
The amazing thing about my husband is that he can evaluate a situation faster than I can toss a burnt omelet into the trash. He gave me a hug, took out the trash, then ran off to Subway to grab a few sandwiches for dinner.
By the time he got back, the stew was gently simmering, I was frosting a three-layered cake, and my blood pressure had gone back to normal.
Life isn’t perfect. Neither am I. But thank goodness for a hubby who can love me even when I’m not the most loveable. 🙂