Rusty Chains

Oh how I love to get calls from my husband at 5:15 every evening as he drives home from work. I feel fortunate to chat with him on the phone while I casually make dinner. We stop talking as he gets close to the house and then resume our conversation as I put the finishing touches on our evening meal and we all sit down to dinner at the table by 6pm.

Yes. Those days are so much better than when he calls at 5:10 from the side of the road where his truck has broken down. They are slightly more enjoyable than not fixing dinner in order to round up the kids and shove them into the car to drive a half an hour to rescue their Daddy. I prefer those predictable meals to the racing highway and my flashers telling traffic to prepare for my inevitable duck onto the shoulder. And OH READER, do I EVER prefer those meal time discussions, even when they turn to subjects less appetizing, over that heavy rusted metal chain, linking truck to car, the nerve racking pull down the highway and unsure stop on our street.

Oh how I dread the condescending looks and tones that are some how my birth right when I walk into that AutoZone and ask for the parts that we need with more confidence than they believe I should have. But I will do it, because tonight I will make dinner once more as the children set the table and their father drives home. We will discuss our days and discuss the disgusting, at our table, with our children, in the center of our humble abode. We will do everything as we did before except that I will wonder whether we are nourished by our food and comforted by our routine, or if it has always been the other way around.