When I think of those breakfasts as a working mother myself, I see them not as a point of comparison for my own actions, but exactly as they were: a labor of love before we all went on to our individual chaotic days.
In my first and second apartments, where we were just two people, we crowded around our tiny table: first a hand-me-down wood that went from renter to renter in Israel, then a white lacquered table from West Elm. I had one child and sometimes think back on what felt like a simpler life. I catch myself and recognize that every stage serves its purpose; even then, I worked hard to create a heart in my home.
The kitchen in my first home was white and blue-gray, fresh and practical and what should have felt timeless, but its sterility didn’t make my heart sing. I think of the little children’s table we butted up against the island where my littles would eat waffles and sometimes edamame. That table was a magnet for crumbs and debris, covered with marker, squiggles drawn by children who were worried they would be caught. They colored while I cooked, and it felt like the heart was home.
I don’t know how we do it: women, mothers, the epicenter of the home. We create pockets that we fill with memories, little moments that our families take with them, unintentionally creating rites of passage. They say the kitchen is the heart of the home, but home is really where the heart is.
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