Dear little one,
At just 8 years old, you may not fully grasp the weight of your words—especially those biting remarks you made recently after I warned you about scraping your fork across the beloved surface of my 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.”
I can understand why you might think that way. After all, your father is the one bringing home the bacon, the one who provides for our family. Meanwhile, I’m here, a work-from-home mom, earning just enough for the occasional family getaway, your art classes, and a trip to Buffalo Wild Wings. I also wear many hats in our household—cook, cleaner, chauffeur—roles that, if monetized, would easily amount to a six-figure salary. But yes, technically, your dad is the primary earner. It’s understandable that you believe he’s the one who buys “everything.”
One day, my dear child, we will discuss the concept of shared finances and how, legally, half of every dollar your father makes is mine. We’ll talk about the immeasurable value of the work I do at home. But not today. Today, I simply want to clarify:
The kitchen table is mine—not your dad’s, not yours, and not even the family’s. It belongs to me.
It’s mine because when I stumbled upon that stunning piece of wooden craftsmanship on Craigslist, it was love at first sight. Sure, it’s just a table, but it’s a beautiful one, and having it in my home brings me joy. I treasure it and want to protect it.
It’s mine because I found it at an incredible price. After scouring Craigslist for months, I finally discovered the exact replica of a table that cost a thousand dollars more in a fancy catalog.
It’s mine because I coordinated borrowing your uncle’s truck to pick it up, and I even filled up his gas tank afterward as a thank you.
It’s mine because I used my own strength to help load that heavy piece of furniture into the back of the truck, and I maneuvered it down the hallway and placed it in our kitchen.
It’s mine because I lay down the protective plastic so you and your sister can unleash your creativity with play-dough, paint, and those strange squishy balls filled with water without fear of ruining it.
It’s mine because I’m the one who prepares the meals served upon it.
It’s mine because I selected the quirky red chairs and the sleek white light fixture that complement it perfectly.
It’s mine because I’m the one who cleans up after you forget to use the protective covering while creating your masterpieces with markers (thank goodness I opted for washable ones).
It’s mine because I sweep and mop beneath it.
But most importantly, my dear son, the table is mine because I deserve to have one thing in this home that is solely mine. A sanctuary that won’t be marred by a careless fork scrape. To me, the table represents more than just a piece of furniture. Its sturdy presence and unpretentious beauty symbolize the essence of motherhood. Even if the funds to purchase it likely came from the money your father earned, that only reinforces its importance to me.
This one lovely item is mine, okay?
And, if you’re still uncertain about the kitchen table’s ownership, here’s my final, irrefutable reason: Because I said so.
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In summary, the kitchen table is mine because it represents my hard work, my creativity, and my desire for a personal space amidst the chaos of family life.
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