A Not So Very Downton Dinner

I recently started watching Downton Abbey. And, once I got started, I finished Season One in three days. If you know what happened in Seasons Two and Three, don't tell me. The story is all the scandal I could hope for. But, ladies, can we be honest? It's the clothes. And the house. And the maids.

After watching the show for nearly seven hours straight (I've been sick--I do have an excuse), I've pillaged my own closet for anything chiffon. I want to wear my hair in curls. I want to drink my ginger ale out of crystal goblets. Shoot, I'd wear a corset if it meant I'd have a ladies maid to lace me up and launder my nightdress (not that I wear a nightdress, but if I had a ladies maid, I'd totally scrap my yoga pants).

I can't complain. I love my house. I love my life. I actually like driving my own car, and honestly, I'd probably get tired of having to ask someone to pour my tea, draw my bath, and comb my hair. Maybe. But, the meals. Five courses! Or more! Dessert! Drinks! Civilized conversation!

I tried my best to recreate a Downton meal. Roasted chicken. Veggies. Rice. I pretended that my "Happy Birthday Jesus" cup was crystal (had to use something that RJ couldn't see through since I had already told him he couldn't have ginger ale with his dinner--but I wanted ginger ale with mine).  Unfortunately, Downton Abbey doesn't go into any detail about dinners when the girls were toddlers. And they didn't have a little boy.

Five minutes into my Downton dinner: "Mommy, I need to go to the bathroom." "Then go. Don't talk to me about it. Just do it."

Eight minutes into my Downton dinner: GiGi throws her cup at my face. She's got an arm, but pretty is as pretty does. Lady Mary did not pitch her goblet at her mother during family dinner.
Ten minutes into my Downton dinner: the bathroom door is open. "Mommy! I need to poop more! Don't come clean me yet!"

Fifteen minutes into my Downton dinner: "Mommy! I'm done! Hurry! It stinks bad!"

And....Downton dinner is over. Because I don't have a Daisy, or an Ana, or an O'Brien. Civilized conversation does not exist for a four-year old boy. I do, however, have a lovely silk robe that I wore after my bath (after clearing at least a dozen hot wheels out of the tub).  I found my 1920's turban style stocking cap with the rhinestones. And I dug out my strands of pearls.

Tonight, I'll trade in "Happy Birthday Jesus" for some real glassware and try again. But really, who wants to spend all evening in the dining room anyway? We have video games to play, trains to run, and shoes to sort.

P.S. GiGi discovered my shoes today--first time she's been in my closet. It was her own Downton moment. "Oooooooo! Shoes! Shoes!" And, she proceeded to select my highest heeled, fanciest gold dress sandals. She has good taste. Someday, she'll probably want to wear her hair in curls, pillage her closet for chiffon, and pretend her plastic cups are crystal too. I hope.