Dinner for four, table for three

Do your kids take forever to get to the table when dinner's ready? Do you call them 10x before they finally show up? And by the time everyone does arrive (including your hubby, who's probably glued to his Blackberry like mine often is) has your mood taken a nose dive? As a wife/mother/author, I know your pain and I'm happy to offer a solution.

Here's my kitchen table, a little bistro-style that seats three. The dilemna, of course, is that I have a family of four, which means when dinner is announced each night all hell breaks loose.

Since buying this table 3 yrs ago (much to my husband's chagrin) dinner starts immediately after I announce it's ready, because seats are at a premium. If you're the last one to arrive, then you'll be sitting on phone books stacked on the black desk chair hidden away at the back of this picture. And since no one wants the-phone-book-chair my family runs for a spot at the table each night.

It's become a family joke, Mom's crazy table for three, and I have no plans to replace it. I grew up in a big family where dinner was never a quiet affair. There were seven of us and meals were loud, in a good way (voices rose and fell, cancelling each other out, there was lots of laughter and just as much arguing), but we always ate together and I'm determined my family will, too.

P.S. For those who think I'm crazy I do have a dining room with a teak table and seating for eight, which is where we eat when we have guests. I'd be happy to serve our nightly dinner here too, but whenever I suggest it my kids say they'd rather eat at the bistro-table. Go figure, huh?

Something about a boy

I used to think if I ever had kids I'd have one, a blond-haired, blue-eyed girl. So sure was I of this that when my oldest was born and they handed him to me, my hands started to shake. What was I supposed to do with a boy? We had nothing in common! How would we ever connect?!

Fast forward 12 years: I now have two boys and every day is an adventure, from what they say (Mom, why do girls get mad when I ask how much they weigh?) to what they do (see video).



Gone are their toddler pot-bellies, the silky super-hero capes they used to wear 24/7, the Batman masks I duct-taped to their faces because they kept falling off. Gone, too, are the glow-in-the-dark sunglasses my oldest insisted on wearing to bed for six months, my youngest's inexplicable fear of balloons, not to mention his much-appreciated though short-lived fascination with vacuuming.

Today, they're only angelic when they're asleep, though they won't actually go to sleep until I kiss them good-night.

When they're awake they equally frustrate and test me, arguing with each other and pushing the envelope, not an ounce of angelic in sight. Even so, the older they get the more often I sneak into their rooms late at night to stare at their pinked up cheeks, wondering what else life has in store for them, if they'll be happy, and if they'll ever meet someone who loves them even half as much as I do.