The Kitchen Table

I was cleaning the kitchen table today with disinfectant wipes--honestly, a task that does not get done near as often as it should. As I wiped the part of the table that has been claimed by our three year old, I was flooded with emotion.

I was wiping up spilled milk that had dried under the place mat, small remnants of paint that Daddo didn’t know was not meant for toddlers to paint with, and dust. The dust is what caused the sadness that overwhelmed me. The dust was evidence of what has not happened recently: family dinners.

I remember growing up eating dinner around our too-small for our family of seven table. Our table was really meant for four. But as a family of seven on a tight budget, my parents made it work. Instead of using full-sized chairs, they found four stools for the four of us kids while mom, dad, and Abuelita sat on proper chairs. Every evening (except Fridays--Fridays were for Pizza, Chinese food, and a rental movie in the living room), before mom went to work, we would squeeze around the edges of that too-small table and eat a hot meal prepared by my mom or Abuelita. We would talk about our day, discuss the plans for the weekend, and spend quality time as a family.

When we got older, mom’s shift moved from a seven PM start time to a five PM start time, and those family dinners quickly came to a close. I spent the majority of my teenage years eating dinner alone on the couch, while watching TV, and missing the days when dinner was eaten together. My oldest sister and brother had moved out and had their own lives, and my other sister, just two and a half years older than me, was usually happily tucked away in her room or away at softball practice. Dad started working until six, or, once we got to high school, was always at our family’s Coffee Shop. I missed our too-small kitchen table.

But that memory of my own childhood wasn’t the only reason I felt so sad. I remembered the stories I’d heard about that specific dining room table--the table given to us by my husband’s step-mom when we moved into our own house after getting married five years ago.

His own family spent his teenage years around that table talking about their days and hosting holidays. The table had been the place where, I’m sure, many family discussions occurred. It was rich with history--like the chair that, 15 years later, still needs wood glue because one or both of the teenage boys would lean back while my husband’s dad or step-mom would tell them, “Don’t lean back or you’ll break the chair.” My husband remembers their own family dinners fondly.

But our family, still fairly new to this whole “family” thing, with two kids under three, uses this very same kitchen table more as a storage space, or an art table, or a play-doh table, than as a place to bond.

I want for those moments where we sit together nightly, discussing our days. I know that this table will be a place where we have many family conversations. I already see the evidence of wear that this table will have with little kids growing up around it--grooves from pencils pushed too hard, paint that should have never been painted, and little details missing from being kicked, or nicked by another chair.

Are we using this table to eat dinner as a family like we both have fond memories of? Not necessarily in this current season. But thankfully, we are still new to this “family” thing and can change that before our girls get too big.

Now that the table is clean, I think I’ll go make us a family dinner now.