During my childhood family gatherings, the adults always claimed the main dining table, while the kids were relegated to a shaky card table in the living room, surrounded by mismatched folding chairs and the odd seat from my grandparents’ collection. The delicious food and refreshing drinks were all at the grownup table; our parents would serve us from there, bringing our meals to us in the less glamorous living room.
As we sat at the kids’ table, our task was to remain quiet and well-behaved. If we needed anything, we’d call out to our parents; under no circumstances were we allowed to approach the grownup table. If we dared to venture too close, the lively conversation would halt, one of our parents would quickly assess our needs, fetch what we wanted, and send us back to our designated area. My sister and I often found ourselves accompanied by our cousins, all boys who were less than engaging at dinner. They were typically too focused on their plates to carry on a conversation, meaning we were mostly left watching the tops of their heads. But even if they had been more talkative, my heart was set on sitting at the grownup table.
To me, the grownup table represented everything exciting and real. From our distant spot, we could hear laughter, whispers, and animated discussions. The clinking of glasses and passing of plates told us that the real action was happening over there, and I longed to join in. Grownups received respect and had the privilege of sharing in all the intriguing stories and jokes. I once asked my parents when I could take my seat among them; my mother revealed that she didn’t get to sit there until she was married. That wasn’t a plan I was fond of at the time; I imagined myself living in a cozy house by the ocean with a hundred cats instead. When people inquired about my future aspirations, I would proudly say, “independently wealthy.” So, how could I transition to grownup status?
Eventually, as my cousins and I matured and our parents became more casual about setting up the card table—or perhaps they just figured out how to expand the dining table—we left the kids’ table behind. Yet, I still hold onto that feeling of being a second-class citizen, that notion of missing out on something meaningful.
Now, as I write, I strive to recall that sense of longing, aiming to give young readers the respect, honesty, and attention they deserve. I reserve my most captivating stories for them—especially those with dark twists or witty punchlines, as I remember those being the most interesting to overhear.
While it’s true that kids will have to endure a few years at the kids’ table, I plan to pull up a folding chair and share a few secrets with them, including this one: Sitting at the grownup table can lose its charm quickly, just as we all do over time.
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Summary:
In reminiscing about childhood family dinners, the author reflects on the divide between the adults at the main table and the kids at a makeshift card table. This separation created a longing for the respect and camaraderie found among grownups, leading to a deeper understanding of the desire for inclusion and recognition in writing for young readers. The piece concludes with tips on home insemination and resources for those exploring family-building options.