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Front Porch: Not a dull moment at family mealtime

After years of scarfing down fast food in the back seat of the minivan, Americans have declared meals around the family dinner table are back en vogue. A quick Google search reveals dozens of articles and studies touting the value of dining together.

For example, this excerpt from Time Magazine states, “Studies show that the more often families eat together, the less likely kids are to smoke, drink, do drugs, get depressed, develop eating disorders and consider suicide … .”

However, studies do not address the likelihood of parents being driven to these behaviors as a result of family mealtime.

Our family eats dinner together at least five nights a week. Aside from Friday night, which is pizza night, I prepare well-balanced home-cooked meals. We use real dishes and silverware. When I call everyone to the table, the candles are lit, and a soothing CD plays softly in the background.

It’s downhill from there. Unfortunately, the conversation rarely lives up to the food and the atmosphere. It seems my idea of appropriate dinnertime dialogue differs from that of my husband and four sons.

I discovered this when my three oldest children were all under 5 and their preferred method of communication was belching. Their conversational ideal was to burp an entire sentence. I threatened. I begged. I said, “Anyone who burps at this table will be banned from eating with the family.” Unfortunately, my husband didn’t appreciate eating his meals off a tray in our room.

I also ascertained that even the food I cooked could be fodder for disastrous dialogue. For instance preparing hot dogs or bratwurst seemed to be an invitation for unruly behavior. My husband’s pantomime with a foot-long hot dog prompted one child to nudge me and say, “Nothing like a good wiener joke, eh, Mom?”

Finally, they outgrew the rude noise/playing with their food stage – well most of them did – and were ready to participate in real conversation. All of them. At the same time. At full volume.

Some rigorous training ensued. My sons learned to take turns, and not interrupt more than a dozen times during a brother’s story. They learned that disagreements about which Pokemon is best would not be settled by a fistfight at our table. They learned that some words aren’t appropriate anywhere, even if they did happen to read that word scratched onto the bleachers in the school gym.

And on a good day, my husband and I learn things, too. We learned about our children’s friends, their enemies, and sometimes even their hopes and fears. But mostly we learned to laugh. Here are a few highlights from a recent family meal:

I usually ask each child: “Did anything interesting or unusual happen today?” Our oldest son got the dialogue going with this tidbit; “I dropped my pants in sixth period.”

I carefully set my fork down. “Ethan, why would you do that?”

“I dunno. I think someone wanted to see my boxers,” he replied.

We moved on to 13-year-old Zachary. “I got bit by a turtle, and we dissected owl pellets in science,” he said. Now, pellets are treading close to the three forbidden “p” words (poop, pee and puke for those keeping track at home) but in the interest of education we gave him some leeway. “Yeah, see, pellets are really petrified poop, and you can cut ‘em open to see what the owls have been munching on.”

“Let’s focus on topics that don’t involve digestion or elimination,” I suggested.

“Great. Way to ruin MY story,” interrupted 15-year-old Alex. “Now, I got nothing good.”

Zack ignored his brother and continued. “I got in trouble in P.E.” Apparently, when the teacher told the kids to run laps, Zack chose to walk. “Why didn’t you run?” his father asked.

“I wanted to see how strict this class is gonna be,” he replied. “The entire class had to run 15 extra laps. Boy, were they mad!” He paused, his eyes big, “Guess P.E. is gonna be pretty strict.”

He informed us he would be learning badminton this semester, and a discussion ensued as to whether hitting birdies with lightweight rackets is a true athletic endeavor.

“It is!” insisted Ethan. “I’ve watched it on TV.” Silence descended as we pondered this. “Well, nothing else was on,” he explained.

The debate progressed with those passionate about the prowess of badminton players vocally dominating those who believed the game is for wimps who lack the strength to slam a tennis ball. Chaos erupted as the chandelier swayed and the candles flickered while boys jumped up to demonstrate their badminton techniques.

I looked around the table at the laughing faces and congratulated myself on sticking to the family mealtime ritual.

And then it was 8-year-old Sam’s turn to share about his day. He scratched his head thoughtfully, and said, “I think I have lice.”

Family mealtime. Participate at your own risk.

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