Why the Kitchen Table Is Just Mine

home insemination Kit

Hey there, kiddo,

At 8 years old, you might not quite get how impactful your words can be, especially the other day when you casually tossed out this gem after I asked you to stop dragging your fork across my cherished kitchen table: “Why do you always say it’s your kitchen table? Daddy bought it. He buys everything since he’s the one who works.”

Well, it might seem that way, huh? Your dad does bring home the bacon and is the hero of the household. Meanwhile, I’m the work-from-home mom who manages to contribute just enough to cover our occasional weekend getaways, your guitar lessons, and those fun trips to Buffalo Wild Wings. I also juggle cooking, cleaning, and driving you kids around—tasks that would earn a hefty paycheck if I were compensated fairly. So yes, technically speaking, your dad is the main breadwinner, which explains why you think he buys “everything.”

But one day, we’ll have a heart-to-heart about how, legally, half of everything he earns is also mine, and how my contributions hold significant value. Just not today. Today, I need to make one thing clear:

That kitchen table? It’s mine—yours, Daddy’s, or even the family’s. It’s mine.

I fell head over heels for that stunning piece of wooden art when I found it online. Sure, it’s just a table, but it’s beautiful—one of my most prized possessions. I treasure it and want to give it the care it deserves.

It’s mine because I scored an amazing deal after months of searching for the perfect table, one that was a replica of a much pricier option I had my eye on at a fancy store.

It’s mine because I organized the whole pickup with your uncle’s truck and even filled up his gas tank afterward.

It’s mine because I lifted that heavy beast into the truck, then carefully maneuvered it down the hallway and into our kitchen.

It’s mine because I’m the one who lays out the protective cloth so you and your sister can unleash your creativity with play-dough, paint, and who knows what else—without ruining it.

It’s mine because I prepare every meal we share on it.

It’s mine because I chose those quirky red chairs and that shiny white light fixture that matches so well.

It’s mine because I’m the one cleaning up after you two when you forget to use the protective cloth and decide to create your masterpieces with markers (thank goodness I splurged on washable ones!).

It’s mine because I sweep and mop underneath it.

But most importantly, my dear child, that table is mine because I deserve to have one thing in this house that’s just for me, untouched by someone absentmindedly scraping a fork across it. To me, it’s more than just a table; it symbolizes motherhood in all its sturdy, beautiful, and eventually worn-out glory. And yes, the fact that the funds for it likely came from your dad’s earnings only reinforces my point.

So there you have it—this one lovely thing is mine. Got it?

And if you still don’t believe me, there’s one last reason that seals the deal: Because I said so!