Three Little Words

(Back to our usually scheduled Sunday morning post!)

I had the privilege of having my daughter, Millie move home and live with me for about 18 months. She'd graduated from business school and that added an extra semester, so she wasn’t ready to commit to her own place. (Also realize the part about business school isn’t super relevant to this story, but I’m ridiculously proud and try to mention it any chance I get.)

I'm also proud of how cool this kid has become. Of course, like most mother daughter relationships we went through turbulent weird times as she grew up, but she not only survived what some might call a “Jeanette Walls, Glass Castles childhood” but she's emerged as just the most brilliant of beings I know. I loved this window of being "roommates" with her as an adult.

Despite all the things I adored about having her home, and how surprisingly easy it was to cohabitate, there were a couple of things that got on my nerves. Things used up or eaten or drank without notification. Piles of her stuff. (My piles were ok) Normal roommate stuff.

But the thing that drove me absolutely crazy? Those three little words.

"What's for dinner?"

I'd come home from work and there she'd be, just waiting to pounce with that question. I started taking a deep breath as I walked through the door, preparing myself for that inevitable inquiry that made me twitchy on a cellular level.

Sometimes we'd make a plan and actually cook together—there's something really beautiful about preparing a meal with your adult child- especially when she’s a pretty good cook. But most of the time, we had no plan and were lucky if we even had groceries that qualified as dinner ingredients.

I was resentful that the responsibility still fell on me. And irked by the predictable exchange: "What do you want?" "I don't know. What do you want?" This could go back and forth until we weren’t even hungry anymore.

Which was great because it allowed me to go ahead with what I wanted. Which was either Pirates Booty or Peanut Butter Puffins. I couldn't understand why my daughter and basically her whole generation didn't see this as a perfectly viable meal, and why she couldn't just find her own version of acceptable dinner cereal.

But life went on, as life does. She kept asking that maddening question, and we settled into a rhythm, like roommates do. She started reteaching me the value of actually making yourself a salad or a sandwich or a salmon bowl. She'd pull recipes from TikTok and Instagram, and reminded me of the beauty of breaking bread together—sometimes on the couch, but together nonetheless.

She moved out in February. Only about fifteen minutes away, into a darling place with a darling roommate, and I can confidently say the kid is thriving.

I've settled into this newer routine—the 2.0 version of empty nest. I find it very odd that of all the things I miss, the most surprising is this: I miss those three little words.

The once cringe worthy "What's for dinner?" when I walked through that door.

How is it that the very thing that used to drive me crazy is now this weird treasured totem of that time? And what could really be qualified as a petty grievance now gives me a little ache of something that feels almost like I’m homesick? That feeling or longing of something that was… Maybe it wasn’t about the food, or the fact she looked at it as my sole responsibility as much as someone waiting for me to come home, willing to engage in a simple ritual of figuring out life together, one meal at a time?

Now when I walk through my door, I ask the dog that question. I can’t tell if he’s annoyed as I (open the bag or box or maybe even turn on the oven as i call my kid and smile.