Growing up in my house was never dull. My parents are conversation starters, and so became Steven and I. We would sit at the dinner table all together, every night for eighteen years with so few exceptions that I could probably count them on my fingers, and discuss things which deserved to be discussed. The topics, tones, and takeaways could respectively span from arbitrary to topical, lighthearted to serious, and righteous to Far Side-esque. There was a gentle urgency to the conversations which pertained to dangerous fads on the news, like teens who were eating bath salts or fainting after hyperventilating and punching each other in the gut. I’m genuinely positive that Steven and I had the innate common sense not to do those things, but how am I to really know that since the warnings started at such a young and malleable age? I’d like to give credit where credit is due for our survival skills. Thank you, Mom and Dad.
Other times the discussions were pedagogical, as it was not uncommon for one of us to have learned something so interesting that it was dying to be tossed around like a hot potato, touched by the input of everyone at the table, taught by whomever had provided the topic. Although the conversations evolved through the years as we matured, the first example that comes to mind is the “scenario” game— a sneaky little tool my parents employed to teach us street smarts when we were in elementary school. A situation would be presented to Steven and I that we as youngsters had never encountered before, and we’d try to concoct the most reasonable plan of action. Then we’d discuss our solutions and my parents would provide insight as to why we were either right or should adjust our strategies. A few examples I can recall were how to politely reject a ride home should a stranger offer one, react astutely if we were blamed for someone else’s fault, and decline to let someone cheat off our tests even if it was our very best friend. Of course, many of these scenarios never did happen, but the safety, diplomacy, and problem-solving skills we learned to apply to other inevitable situations was the key. It was fun and easygoing, yet still offered a crisp sense of competition to see whose answer made sense on most accounts. We would sometimes even request the game if we were feeling particularly prudent. Mind you, Steven and I are not competitive siblings; this was very mild contention. I’ve actually compiled a comprehensive list of the things that we are truly ruthless about. The only real doozies are: (1) badminton (2) foosball, which is frighteningly intense, and (3) whose senior portrait is above the other on the staircase wall, as we still switch the frames whenever we get a chance. This impressively short list is just meant to prove that we are not the sibling-rivalry types. Except for those three things, which remain cutthroat. Returning to our dinner conversations— most of the time, they were downright hysterical. I’m talking tears. I’m talking accidental snorting. I’m talking, sometimes I would spit out my milk. This was always due to a perfect storm of comedic timing, shock regarding the line that the comment probably crossed, and all eyes on me waiting for it to happen. While I’d try to regain my composure, which is not easy to do and becomes quite the desperate task when you’ve just taken a giant sip, they would start further embellishing the joke or just repeat it until I finally lost it. One time I think they covered all the plates with their napkins in preparation. My family isn’t mean; they’re brilliant. Also, I’m not embarrassed that you all now know this is something I’ve done more than once. It’s only happened exclusively in their company (don’t pity them— entirely their fault), so you’re all in the clear for any future meals with me. We tell stories at the dinner table. It might be an anecdote from the day, or an old tale from years ago that we’ve finally deemed acceptable to share with one another. Sometimes it’s a theory we’ve taken an interest in regarding history or philosophy or science, that ends up spiraling into a series of witty or droll hypotheticals. When this happens, the story completely loses its arc. It’s just a hill that keeps rising with the next ridiculous addition and never plunges or even forms the dinkiest parabola again because there is no resolution. Just the final peak which determines whether or not I spit out my milk. I think that’s why my family egged me on so many times while I was trying so freaking hard to contain it; it was like an achievement, a notch in the belt of our collective humor. By the way, I know there are some people out there who might want to say to me after reading this, “You still drink milk at dinner?” Not anymore, okay? I did for a really long time. This was before people got up in arms about milk. I know I’ve said the word “milk” a lot in this post, and I’m done now. We didn’t have dinner together every night because of a curfew or a rule; that was just where we all wanted to be. Plans could be pushed back or cut a little short for an hour of fun with each other. I was going to think of a fancier word than fun, but in its simplicity, its ease, its pure definition, that is what it is and always has been. There’s a new kind of gratitude that I feel when the four of us, between three cities and busy schedules, all make it to the dinner table again.
1 Comment
Mom
12/11/2018 03:34:07 pm
I love this.
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