Dear little one,
At just 8 years old, you lack the perspective to fully grasp the weight of your words—the sharp, teasing remarks you made the other day when I warned you not to scrape your fork across the surface of my cherished kitchen table: “Why do you always say it’s ‘your’ kitchen table? Daddy bought it. He’s the one who works, so he gets to buy everything.”
I understand why you might think that way. Yes, your father is the primary provider, the hero who brings home the bacon. I’m just the at-home mom, earning just enough for the occasional weekend trip, your music lessons, and a family outing to our favorite wings place. I also handle cooking, cleaning, driving you to activities, and many other roles that, if compensated, would amount to a small fortune. True, your dad is the main breadwinner, so I can see why you believe he owns “everything.”
My dear child, we will have a conversation about how the law regards half of your father’s earnings as mine and how the contributions I make to our household hold significant value. But that discussion can wait. Right now, I want you to know this:
The kitchen table is mine—not Daddy’s, not yours, and certainly not just a family item. It is mine.
I fell in love with that stunning piece of wooden craftsmanship when I found it on Craigslist. While it may seem like just a table, to me, it is one of the most beautiful possessions I own, and it brings joy to my space. I treasure it and want to care for it.
It’s mine because I scored an incredible bargain after months of searching for the perfect table—one that was even better than the overpriced version in the catalog. It’s mine because I arranged to borrow your uncle’s truck to bring it home, filling the tank afterward as a small thank you. I was the one who muscled it into the back of that truck and then maneuvered it down the hallway and into our kitchen.
I’m the one who lays down the plastic cover so that you and your sister can unleash your creativity with play-dough, paint, and those peculiar water-filled balls without worrying about stains. I’m the one who prepares the meals we share on it, and I chose the quirky red chairs and the shiny white light fixture that complement it perfectly.
I’m also the one who cleans up after you two when you forget to use the protective covering and end up drawing with markers (thank goodness I bought washable ones). I’m the one who sweeps and mops beneath it.
But most importantly, my dear, the kitchen table is mine because I deserve to have at least one thing in this house that is solely mine and that isn’t subjected to the wear-and-tear of careless fork dragging. It is mine because it symbolizes my journey through motherhood. The fact that the funds to purchase it likely came from the money your father earned only reinforces its significance to me.
So, this lovely piece belongs to me. Clear? And just to make sure you understand, here’s my final, undeniable reason: Because I said so.
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In summary, though your father may be the financial provider, my contributions to our home, including the beloved kitchen table, are invaluable and worthy of recognition.