Maybe I’m a better parent after eating out by myself

Everything is perfect except I wish I had socks, Me, this evening at dinner by myself. Pork belly, miso, and toasty bok choy steamed in front of me, a trusty middle-aged stranger contentedly slurping next to me at the bar, my phone on Do Not Disturb. But my feet were cold.

I slurped, struggled with the wooden chopsticks but pretended not to, and jotted notes down on my notebook as I sat alone. Maybe for the first time in a week? Two weeks? I can’t remember when. Strip mall ramen never tasted so good.

Why am I looking in this bowl of ramen and seeing a thousand possibilities? Free from the tug of mama and Can you…? and sticky floors and stinky bottoms I’m lost (and maybe falling in love) with a bowl of soup. I push aside a pale yellow poached egg, and imagine an island vacation with my husband. What would we do? I scoop a hearty bite into the plastic spoon and blow on it to cool it off. I know what we’d do. Jungle hikes, beach laying, pineapple eating, bed staying. Beside mushroom shoots and chopped onions, I feel an overwhelming sense of calm come over me. I sigh, swirl my neck, and crack my knuckles. Cross my legs. Uncross my legs.

When I was one kid in, it was manageable. When I was two kids in, it was chaos. When I was three kids in, I surrendered. Now four kids in, I do not know what to do. I’m back to my first-kid-trying-to-control-everything hyper self. I don’t know what to toss, hold onto, or put on the shelf until later. All plates are in the air, flying, humorously crashing. (Good thing we chose plastic.)

I don’t know how much of this they’ll remember.

Me sneaking away to cry mid-afternoon, me spending hours on Care.com trying to find help, my ever-present frustration with the question of how much to work and when. How to find and keep support and not feel guilty.

Or, the evening dance parties to You’re a Sunflower, running around the house playing tag with a dirty broom and three best friends. The pancakes Dad makes every Saturday. Their favorite giant super soft jammie shirts. Chocolate ice cream cones on Monday family nights. “Spicy” toothpaste, lavender and rosemary shampoo in the bath, reading time before bed. What I call daily monotony is their life. The life they love and know. This is their world. We’re their world.

What do I need to do to see all this from my childrens’ perspective more often?

What do I need to do to think to myself more often, Everything is perfect I just wish I had socks?