A Dinner Challenge

So yesterday I was sitting on the couch watching Barney with the twins before supper.


You’ve got to get them introduced to high culture when they’re young.

Then my husband came in and said he was going to work out on his stationary bike. I said, “Before dinner?’ And he said, “Yeah, I’ve got time, unless we’re eating within the next forty-five minutes.”

Apparently he thought I was slacking off in the food preparation process, what with the sitting on the couch and all.

I looked at my watch; it was 5:30. “Well, actually, I was planning on us eating at 6. That’s when I told the girls to come in from outside.”

He looked at his own watch. He said, “You know, you always say we’re eating at 6, but really it’s more like 6:15 or 6:30 by the time you get it on the table. So I think I’ve got time.”

I said, “Is that a derogatory comment about my tendency to lateness?”

He shrugged. “Just an observation,” he said, and went off to do his workout.

Well, it seemed the gauntlet had been thrown down.

Just a little history here: My husband’s comes from a family of Super Punctuality. I mean, we are talking Always on Time (If Not 15 Minutes Early) No Matter What. My family is a little different.

As an illustration, when we were kids and the family would go on vacation it would be like this:

His family: We plan to leave at 6 a.m. The car is packed and all preparations made the night before. We wake up at 5, all dress and pile into the car with incredible organization and precision, and pull out of the driveway by 5:45 to begin our trip.

My family: We plan to leave at 6 a.m. We wake up at around 6 and begin loading the car. We wander around in a confused manner for a couple of hours, packing all kinds of last-minute things we‘ve forgotten. We smash ourselves into the heavily-laden car at around 8 and drive out. We come back at 8:15 to (a) retrieve something we left or (b) let someone use the bathroom who forgot to go before. We begin our trip around 8:30.

So I could see what my husband was saying during this little conversation about dinnertime.

And it was: “You couldn’t put supper on the table by six to save your life, you Tardy Tessie!”

So my mission was clear.

As I got everything ready in my normal, as twin-proof as possible, fashion --i.e., cook only on the back burners, set only the center of the table, keep all food away from the counter edges-- I considered that the polite thing to do would be to hold dinner until my husband was done with his workout. After all he HAD told me when he would be finished, so shouldn’t I just wait for him?

Nah.

Not after that challenge; there was no WAY I was backing down.

The kids came in from the playground just before six, and I told them to wash their hands.

When everything was ready, I stuck my head out onto the back porch where my husband was toiling away on his bicycle to nowhere.

“Dinner’s ready by six,” I said smugly.

He checked his watch and said with equal self-satisfaction, “6:05.”

Ouch!