It’s usually night like tonight, too.
Drive home from work where The Boy and I yammer away about homework, cleaning his room, a kid at school that’s kind of a jerk, and Minneapolis city curfews. The Boy does his math homework while we run to the store for paper towels, a prescription, and a winter scarf Riley can wear to his first visit to Santa on Saturday.
The three of us stand around in the kitchen. Well, The General cooks, I open things and taste test new recipes. The Boy, in his attempt at talking his way out of cleanup duty, tried to say he helped with dinner prep by “providing conversation”.
Dinner at the table, discussions about hot sauce and what size shoe The Boy’s dad wears. Then it’s off to bathe for The Kid and some program watching for the adults.
Now I’m in bed with little Thelma. The Kid has a Panic at the Disco CD on repeat while he sleeps. And The General and Riley are closing up shop downstairs before coming up to bed.
Nights like this have become my life and I don’t have a complaint in the world about it.