The Table

I was cleaning our kitchen table, cursing as I tried to scrape out the food wedged in the crack running down the middle and scrubbed in vain at a spot of paint or ink or felt marker that is clearly not washable after all. As I was cleaning I saw the faint impression of words that had been etched in the soft pine decades earlier. Words I wrote as I was doing my junior high homework, pressing too hard on the lone piece of paper atop the surface of the table.

I remember my old kitchen table (which is now my kids’ childhood table) in its prime. It sat in the sunroom of the house in which I grew up, draped with the tablecloth my grandmother embroidered. The centerpiece was my Mom’s onyx fruit bowl filled with onyx fruit that she painstakingly wrapped, piece by weighty piece, and hauled back from Mexico in her carry-on.

That table served us well over the years. We gathered at that table for some great meals and some not-so-great ones. We laughed and cried around it too. I crammed for exams and wrote papers sitting around that table. It served as a witness to dreaded family meetings and was ringside for some terrible family fights. It endured angst-filled teenagers dripping with attitude, it celebrated birthdays, and it supported overloaded book bags at the end of a long day. It welcomed friends, even when these friends technically weren’t authorized to be there. It saw us at our best and at our worst. Frankly, if that table could talk, we would have to muzzle it.

And now the next generation is eating, celebrating, creating crafts, arguing and giving attitude around that table. Ben has left his mark, pocking the table with the pattern of fork tines as he pounds the table. Carmen makes masterpieces and occasionally forgets to use cardboard to protect the table from her creative palette, leaving behind reminders of her favourite colours. They have added their signatures to mine, adding memories that maybe they too will look back on in twenty-five years.

I finished clearing off the crumbs and the artwork and the toys that accumulate on the table through the day, pushed the chairs carefully under it(so the spindles on the chair backs wouldn’t dislodge again), and flicked the light off. Suddenly I’m not in such a panic to replace this old set just yet. It feels kind of like home.

Over-sharing

Yesterday the kids went out to play in the yard. As usual, I roared after them the pearls of wisdom passed down through the generations: “Watch out for the dog poop, stay off the retaining wall or you’ll fall and crack your head open, and close the door.” (It’s amazing how many things could have cracked my head open when I was a kid!).

Eventually the kids wanted to go out front to play road hockey. When we ventured out there was a boy from a few houses down –a second-grader from another school who we didn’t know – circling the cul-de-sac on his bike. We invited him to play and he dismounted and bounded over to our yard.

In the three minutes it took me to set up the net and get the sticks, I heard this boy impart bizarre and terrible truths (or an 8-year-old’s version of truth) about his family, all of them he shared without a second thought.
His dad had a ladybug crawl into his ear and had to have surgery.
His older brother struck and killed a child with his truck, and their mom went crazy.
He doesn’t have to ask permission to go anywhere or do anything – he just goes.

I shudder to think about what my kids must say about us when we aren’t there.
“My parents yell at us. All. The. Time.”
“My mom sits on the computer and doesn’t play with us.”
“My dad says mommy should start drinking to get through the day.”

Okay, so while Bryce has said that last one in jest, it isn’t something, to my knowledge, the kids have said but I can just imagine it popping out at sharing time at preschool.

I guess it’s our fault for teaching our kids the virtues of honesty without the subtle art of filtering and judgement. I guess that will come in time. Hell, it won’t be long before they are mortified by our existence and won’t even acknowledge us. In the meantime I guess they will continue to regale their teachers and friends’ parents with tales of beer consumption, bad habits, and God only knows what else. So to all of Carmen and Ben’s friends’ parents: remember – it’s not true. Or at least not completely.

I never thought I would blog. Never. Ever. My life just doesn’t seem exciting enough to talk about in public. And still, here I am, putting pen to paper (or the computer equivalent) for all the world to see. If not the world at least the three people who might follow my blog – assuming my Mom can figure out how to work her computer. So let’s say two people, just to be conservative. Sorry for the vote of non-confidence, Mom!

A blog seems to be a good way to get myself back into writing again. You see, I’m a raging procrastinator and am so brilliantly accomplished in this art, I can put things off almost indefinitely without them losing their place on my “To-Do One Day” list. Somehow writing got pushed back in the priority list and I’m finding that I’ve become a bit rusty. That might be obvious to both of you reading this, but take heart; it can only get better!

My goal is to start writing regularly, about anything and everything. The kids are old enough that their days (and mine) involve more than their bowel movements and sleep schedules so my horizons and topics of conversation are broadening! There is so much to enjoy, lament, and laugh at with them every day, why not share it? And I’m slowly regaining my life now that they are embarking on their own journeys (okay, they are only 7 and 4 but I can see it happening already!). As I get back my creative juices, maybe I can start creeping tentatively toward my goal of writing a novel one day. I’ll keep you all posted on how that goes. Wanna come along for the ride?