Weeknight Ritual

My mother prepared herself for her performance. I start taking down the set.

When I was very young my mother’s routine included “freshening up” (her term) to greet my father when he came home from work. She would comb her hair, change into a different dress, then apply clip-on earrings and a bright red shade of lipstick that for some reason I found embarrassing. On evenings my father came home on time, rather than stopping at the club for drinks or going to a board meeting that also included drinks, dinner would be ready and waiting. He would walk in the door and my mother would hand him the evening newspaper and a dry martini.  

I also dress for my husband’s weeknight returns from work. As soon as the sun sets, I ditch the jeans and presentable sweater for sweatpants, size large, and a cardigan I call my Writing Sweater, a muck-brown Jake hand-me-down made of some magical synthetic fabric that doesn’t irritate my skin. When I see Sam’s car, I alert Charlie, who rushes to the front door to slather his inclined face with kisses. I greet Sam with equal sincerity but less desperation.

My mom didn’t seem to mind her freshening up ritual, though personally I have a hard time imagining making myself less comfortable at the end of the day (I mean, clip-on earrings?). She was always happy to see my dad. But I am grateful for the evolution of honey, I’m home into yay, we’re home; for Sam and Charlie joining sweatpantsed me not as audience, but in chorus.