Dinner as Usual

I had a Mommy meltdown this evening. A relatively calm one, but still a meltdown nonetheless. In what seemed a typical family moment. I was clearing the table after a family dinner while my husband was using that time to work out a stressful work ]day on the drum set in the living room. The three kids were actually playing together. Chasing each other with pillows giggling and running, I called them in to finish their chocolate milk from supper so we could plant seeds in the little greenhouses I had purchased a week ago. They obediently came in and picked up their cups and began drinking. This does not seem as if it would be a precursor to a meltdown, so cue the giggling child to spit out her entire mouthful of chocolate milk onto the clean table. Ever so calmly I ask her if she is OK, make sure she isn't really choking , and I tell her to clean it up. She casually walks over to get a dish towel to wipe it up. This action probably wouldn't bother some, but I am constantly out of clean, dry dishtowels and it is just a pet peeve of mine when someone uses them for anything other than drying clean hands or dishes. At this point I do have a moment. One of those palms flat down on the table, head hung down in frustration, count to 6 1/2 (because I can't make it to 10) and I tell her in a louder than necessary voice that she should have used a paper towels. She looks at me and says "It's only milk, Mommy." Ah, the wisdom of a child. I should have laughed. I should have pulled her into a hug and said "You're right, honey." Wouldn't that have been the lovely mother-daughter moment we all think we live for? Didn't happen. Instead, I go into a loud rant, trying to be heard over the drum set, about how they have pillows in the kitchen, they didn't clear their plates like they should and a plethora of other things that I can't even remember. And, while my poor precious babies are looking at me as if I have flashing eyeballs, what do I hear behind me? The loving support of my dear husband? I wish. I hear a snicker. Now, at this moment I could have laughed right along with him, but no. Instead, I whip around on the attack and scream at him that I don't have the refuge of playing the drums for 20 minutes so please just let me yell this out without him laughing at me. Probably not in the top 10 of reactions that could have occurred in that moment. He looks at me  just like the kids were looking at me and then the trio of trouble makers start laughing. He actually does the one thing that would help in this situation and herds them all upstairs for showers, pats me on the bottom and tells me to get into my truck and get out of here. Most moms would jump at this chance, and maybe I should have. But, where would I go in my truck that gets such a low gas mileage number that I can not, will not show it in print?  Shivering at the quick calculation of how much it would cost just to get to town, I continue cleaning the kitchen. It actually feels wonderful and I realize that this is all I needed all along. I craved the ability to clean the kitchen while someone else did the shower routine with the short people that live here. I didn't need to go for a drive to let off steam, I just needed 5 minutes. Of peace. And. Quiet. He got the kids all bathed and changed, tucked in, even read books to them and I didn't have to request his assistance. This is not to drive home any point about him not being a hands-on dad at all. He is a wonderful father and husband, but, like most men I would assume, he just thinks since I do it every single day of my life that I don't want his help unless I specifically ask. True to form, my normal motto is that if I want it done right I will just do it myself. Control freak some might say. I will not argue. So the night ended like a clip from the Waltons, with me kissing the kids and saying goodnight as I came back downstairs. Maybe I should have these mini meltdowns more often.  As if the guilt of not being the one to do the nightly routine isn't already getting to me. Ugh.