Again, my name ain't June

{this is a re-post from when I only had one newborn...imagine what 5 p.m. around here now!}

I know it's not politically correct in this day of career woman/super mom, but I'm just going to say it...I love June Cleaver.

I love everything about her- her perfectly coiffed hair, having a piping hot meatloaf coming out of the oven just in time for her husband to get home from work and the kids to be done with homework, her peep-toe heels and belted, A-line skirts. I mean, what's not to like?

This iconic sense of perfection was in my head a couple of nights ago as I prepared to make dinner. I pictured Ethan walking in the door to a pink-cheeked, cooing baby and me putting the finishing touches on a perfect dinner- beef Burgundy (eating meat on a Wednesday is a reason to go all out!)
Well, my perfect evening got a little kink in it when Zoe started crying. I thought, "Hmmm. Nap time. It's not completely like I'd imagined it, with you playing happily in the kitchen while I explained all of my actions and the ingredients to you, but it'll do."

Now, normally I put her down in the crib at roughly the same times every day and she sleeps well. She's nothing if not predictable! However, this day was different. I read a book to her and put her in the bed. The crying started, and it didn't trail off after the usual 10 seconds. No- it got louder. I mean, A LOT louder. "She's fine. She's not hungry or wet, so I'm going to leave her be while I finish dinner."

Following my newly-found recipe should have been a breeze, too. I've made this dish before and it is really not complicated at all. I had gone to the store the day before, so I had all of the ingredients. All that was left to do was tie a little bow in my anthropologie apron and make the magic happen...

Not only was there no magic, but after my first taste-test I realized I had drastically over cooked the meat. Perhaps this was because, during the cooking process, I had to go into my child's room to rescue her from whatever it was that was causing the non-stop screaming coming from her room. Perhaps it was my ridiculous pride. Perhaps not.

Maybe it was the fact that, though my idea of 50's perfection is fine, it is (admittedly) romanticized and idyllic, if not completely unattainable.

In the end, Ethan probably walked into what every man coming home from work in the 50's walked into more-often-than-not: a disastrous kitchen, over cooked meal, disheveled wife with no makeup and certainly no coif, and a screaming, albeit pink-cheeked, child!