Sitting at the kitchen table. The one 7 years intended to hold family meals with conversations of routine and wonder. The one intended to be a dependable landing place, layered in comfort of more than food. The one I for far too long have allowed to make me feel less than adequate, for it more often gathers clutter than family.
Instilled by generations long past, as both an expectation and a marker of success, a nightly family meal created common ground for roles understood. Consistent, dependable and most often delicious, the act of gathering as one, was considered to be essential to a family’s well-being.
So… the fact that in the last 7 years, my family has sat down to a meal, all together, at the table, on likely less than thirty occasions, was a crippling hurdle, in seeing us as a healthy unit, or myself as an effective parent worthy of the title of loving mama.
That is until I allowed myself to realize that the expectation-filled picture in my head was based on a lifestyle and schedule not often attainable in our current day and time. When I stopped viewing our family time as less meaningful, I started recognizing it as different and fitting to our specific availability and needs.
In other words, my children do not sit to eat, they move to regulate themselves and the chances of having an empty plate are far greater. Their father holds employment often outside of the traditional hours. Educating at home means our table is an everything table and is seldom clean and clear, but often a plethora of the days or weeks art projects, science experiments and playdoh creations.
This is our reality. The world is our table. Strewn, stretched and sometimes full of struggle. We stand, sit, work, play, learn, laugh, cry question and grow together. Nourished by love and leftovers; we are a family.
