During my childhood, family meals were a clear divide: adults gathered around the formal dining table while we kids were relegated to a makeshift setup in the living room with a wobbly card table. Surrounded by folding chairs and mismatched seats from my grandparents’ collection, my sister and I watched as our parents served up delicious food and drink, always from the grownup table. Our plates were brought to us, and we were expected to stay seated, quiet, and well-behaved.
If we needed something, we could call out to our parents, but approaching the adult table was strictly forbidden. If we dared to wander too close, conversations would suddenly halt, and one of our parents would rush over to see what we wanted, only to send us back to our “designated” area. Usually, my sister and I shared the kids’ table with our cousins, all boys who were less than engaging dinner companions. They were too busy inhaling their meals to converse, leaving us only with the tops of their heads to look at. Yet, even if they had been talkative, my focus would have remained fixed on the grownup table.
To me, the adult table represented the heart of the family gathering. We could hear laughter, whispers, and the clinking of glasses as plates exchanged hands. It was where the action happened, where the grownups were, and I longed to be part of that world. Grownups commanded respect; their words held weight, and they were privy to all the intriguing stories and jokes. I often asked my parents when I might graduate to that table, only to learn from my mother that she didn’t sit there until she got married. That was a plan that didn’t work for me; I envisioned a future living by the sea with a hundred cats, proclaiming my aspiration to be “independently wealthy.” So how would I make the leap to adulthood?
As time passed, my cousins and I grew, and our parents became more lax about setting up the card table. Eventually, we all squeezed around the dining table, leaving the kids’ table behind. However, I never lost that feeling of being an outsider, of missing out on the “real” conversations and camaraderie.
Now that I write, I tap into that longing, striving to give young readers the respect and honesty they deserve. I reserve my best stories for them—especially the dark, funny, and surprising ones, knowing those are the tales that keep them engaged. Yet, the truth remains: they will have to endure a few years at the kids’ table. But while they’re there, I’ll gladly pull up a folding chair, ready to share a few secrets with them. Here’s one: sitting at the grownup table can get old pretty quickly—just like we all do.
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In summary, the journey from the kids’ table to the grownup table is filled with longing and lessons. While kids may feel sidelined, there’s wisdom and humor to be found in every stage of life.
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