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The Grownup Table
Updated: Oct. 29, 2020
Originally Published: Apr. 5, 2015
Growing up, family dinners had a clear divide: the adults gathered at the proper dining room table, while us kids were relegated to a wobbly card table in the living room, surrounded by mismatched folding chairs and those old seats from my grandparents’ house. The good food? All at the grownup table. Our parents would serve us from there, bringing our plates to the “wilds” of the living room.
During meals, we were expected to stay quiet and seated. If we needed anything, we had to call out to our parents. Approaching the grownup table was a definite no-no; if we dared to venture too close, the lively conversations would come to a halt as one of our parents would figure out what we needed and send us back to our spot. My sister and I often shared the kids’ table with our cousins—mostly boys—who weren’t exactly known for their engaging conversations. They hunched over their plates, more focused on eating than chatting, which meant we mostly saw the tops of their heads. But honestly, even if they had been chatty, it wouldn’t have mattered. All I wanted was to be at the grownup table.
To me, that table was where it was all happening. From our little table in the living room, we could hear the laughter, the whispers, the clinking of glasses, and plates being passed around. The grownups were the stars of the show, and I yearned to join them. They commanded respect. People listened to them. They were privy to everything, and most importantly (to me, at least), they got to share all the best jokes and stories.
I once asked my parents when I could sit at the grownup table. My mom told me she didn’t get to sit there until she got married. That didn’t sit well with me. My plan, at that time, was to never marry and instead live by the ocean with a hundred cats. When people asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, I’d say “independently wealthy.” So, how could I ever graduate to grownuphood?
Eventually, as my cousins and I grew taller and our parents got lazier about setting up the card table (or they finally figured out how to add a couple of extra leaves to the dining room table), we left the kids’ table behind. But I never forgot that feeling of being a second-class citizen, that nagging sense of missing out on all the good stuff.
Now, as I write, I keep that longing in mind, giving young readers the respect, honesty, and attention they truly deserve. I save my best stories for them—especially the dark, funny, surprising tales because I know those are the ones I always wanted to overhear.
Sadly, they will have to sit at the kids’ table for a while. That’s just the way it is. But while they’re there, I’m pulling up a folding chair to share a few secrets. Here’s one: sitting at the grownup table can get stale really quick. So do we all.
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In summary, the experience of sitting at the kids’ table is a rite of passage. It serves as a reminder of the desire to be part of something bigger and the eventual transition into adulthood.