Pot roast on Sunday

I got out of bed this morning because I was dreaming about oversleeping. In my dream I woke up at noon and so the laundry in the dryer (which was all of the clean underwear and Jake's church shirt) didn't get restarted which meant that we were late to church, and I was late getting the roast on to cook so we couldn't eat until 9:00 pm. I shot out of bed and across the room to the alarm clock. It was 9:30... am. Oh. Whew.

So the laundry got dry, the roast got started and we went to church in plenty of time. I was exhausted from my burst of anxiety dream fulled adrenaline, but we were on time. Although Jake, who's job it is every week to pack up the church bag, forgot diapers and wipes (again) so he and Brian had to run back home for them. But I was on time.

I was reflecting as I stood washing up the dishes after dinner, that making a pot roast still makes me feel like I am a little girl playing house. It's the strangest thing. I am a 32 year old mother of three. I have been married for 10 years, lived in 5 homes and have had 2 mortgages. I am right in the thick of my adulthood, but cooking pot roast still feels a little surreal. Pot roast for Sunday dinner is what my mother made when I was growing up, or what my mother in law makes. I could probably count on both hands the number of pot roasts I've made since we've been married. (I might have to use one foot, but only just.)

It's just funny to have something like cooking a meal make me think, "Oh man, I am so grown-up!"