Dear child,
At just 8 years old, you might not yet grasp the weight of your words—especially those biting remarks you made the other day when I warned you about the dangers of using your fork on my cherished kitchen table: “Why do you always say it’s ‘your’ kitchen table? Daddy bought it since he’s the one who works.”
I understand why you might think that, my sweet boy. Your father is indeed the primary provider, the one who brings home the bacon, while I work from home, earning just enough for the occasional family outing or your guitar lessons. I wear many hats in our household: I’m the cook, the cleaner, the chauffeur—the list goes on. So yes, it seems like Daddy purchases most things around here.
But, my dear son, one day we will have a conversation about how, legally, half of all your father’s earnings are mine and how the countless hours I dedicate to our home hold significant value. But today is not that day. Today, I simply need to assert: the kitchen table is mine—not your father’s or yours, but mine.
It’s mine because I fell in love with that stunning piece of wooden craftsmanship on Craigslist. While it may seem like just a table, it’s a beautifully crafted work of art that brings joy to my space. I value it deeply and strive to keep it in pristine condition.
It’s mine because I spent months searching for the perfect table, ultimately finding this exact replica (even better!) for a fraction of the cost of the one in the World Market catalog.
It’s mine because I arranged to borrow your uncle’s truck to bring it home and even topped off his gas tank afterward.
It’s mine because I used my own strength to load that heavy table into the truck and then maneuvered it inch by inch down the hallway and into our kitchen.
It’s mine because I lay down the protective plastic cover so that you and your sister can create to your heart’s content without ruining it.
It’s mine because I’m the one who prepares all the meals that grace its surface.
It’s mine because I chose the quirky red chairs and the sleek white light fixture that complement it perfectly.
It’s mine because I’m the one who cleans it when you both forget to use the protective covering and leave colorful markers on it (thankfully, I made sure to purchase washable ones).
It’s mine because I sweep and mop underneath it regularly.
But most importantly, dear child, the table is mine because I deserve to have one thing in this house that is solely mine, something that won’t be carelessly damaged by a fork dragged across it. It’s mine because to me, it represents more than just a piece of furniture; it symbolizes the essence of motherhood. And yes, the fact that the funds to buy it likely came from your father’s earnings only adds to the truth of my statement.
So, this one lovely thing is mine. Okay?
And if there’s still any doubt in your mind about the ownership of the kitchen table, let me give you one final, irrefutable reason: Because I said so.
For more on topics related to home insemination and the journey to parenthood, check out our post on intracervical insemination. You can also visit Make a Mom to learn from experts on this subject. Additionally, the Genetics and IVF Institute offers excellent resources for those seeking information on pregnancy and home insemination.
In summary, the kitchen table is a cherished possession that holds great meaning for me, serving as a metaphor for the work and love I put into our family life. It’s a reminder of my contributions and my desire to create a space that is beautiful and uniquely mine.