Tired Mom Diary – Chapter 4 – Performance Review
Thanksgiving dinner was at our house.
Eight people. Fourteen-pound turkey. Three side dishes. Two mothers with opinions.
One woman who apparently hates herself.
Me.
I had a spreadsheet.
Ben had a beer.
To be fair, he’d also peeled the potatoes, cleaned the bathrooms, picked up his mother and kept Nora entertained.
But I had the spreadsheet.
Guess who was in charge.
At 10:15 a.m., my mother called.
“Do you need me to bring anything?”
“Just yourself.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“I could bring a salad.”
“Everything’s covered, Mom.”
“I’ll bring a salad.”
She brought a salad.
Nobody ate it.
She took it home.
She’ll bring it again at Christmas.
At noon, Ben was loading the dishwasher.
Wrong.
Not dangerously wrong. Nobody was going to die.
But the bowls were facing the wrong direction.
“Those won’t get clean like that,” I said.
“They always get clean.”
“Because I rearrange them.”
He looked at the dishwasher.
Then at me.
“Okay.”
He moved the bowls.
I moved them again.
He handed me the dish towel and went to help Nora set the table.
I stood there with a dish towel, supervising a machine that washes dishes.
A university degree.
Twenty-five years of professional experience.
And apparently, a PhD in bowl placement.
At 3:40 p.m., my mother-in-law arrived.
She walked into the kitchen, looked at the food, and said the six words that keep women doing things they hate.
“I don’t know how you do it.”
I smiled.
“Lots of planning.”
She shook her head.
“You’re amazing.”
I almost offered to host Christmas.
That’s how dangerous compliments are.
Dinner was beautiful.
The turkey was perfect.
The potatoes were perfect.
The gravy was perfect.
My mother said the stuffing needed more salt.
My mother-in-law said she never puts salt in stuffing.
They discussed salt for eleven minutes.
Ben looked at me across the table.
I looked at him.
We’ve been married long enough to have entire conversations without moving our mouths.
This one was mostly profanity.
After dinner, Nora asked if she could have pie.
“Ask Dad,” I said.
Ben was standing beside her, holding the pie.
“Can I have pie, Dad?”
“Yes.”
She looked at me.
“Mom, Dad said yes.”
“Then have pie.”
“Are you sure?”
Ben slowly put the pie down.
I considered climbing into the oven.
It was still warm.
At 8:30 p.m., everyone left.
Except the dishes.
The dishes live here.
Ben started clearing the table.
“Go sit down,” he said. “I’ve got this.”
I sat.
For forty-seven seconds.
Then I heard the dishwasher open.
I got up.
He looked at me.
“Seriously?”
“What?”
“You’re checking.”
“I’m getting water.”
“Your glass is in your hand.”
I looked at the glass.
He looked at the glass.
The glass betrayed me.
THANKSGIVING PERFORMANCE REVIEW
Turkey: 10/10.
Potatoes: 10/10.
Gravy: 10/10.
Family behaviour: Needs improvement.
Ability to accept help: Under review.
Number of times I said “I’m fine”: Four.
Number of times I was fine: Unclear.
Tuesday morning, Ben found me eating leftover pie directly from the container.
With a serving spoon.
It was 7:12 a.m.
“Breakfast of champions,” he said.
“There’s fruit in it.”
“It’s a pumpkin.”
“Vegetables, then.”
He kissed my forehead and started the coffee.
“Mom asked what I want for Christmas,” he said. “I told her to ask you.”
I stopped chewing.
“Why?”
“Because you’re better at gifts.”
“Ben.”
“What?”
“You’re forty-eight.”
“Forty-seven.”
“Then you have a whole year to figure out what you want.”
He laughed.
I didn’t.
He opened his mouth, thought better of it, and got himself a mug.
I took another bite of pie.
Apparently, this was my breakfast and my performance review.
Neither was going particularly well.