Last night we did something we rarely do.
We all sat down.
We all ate.
And we did it all at the the same table.
Now, its not as if we never eat together, we usually do. Only at different tables.
Yes, its true, I make my children sit at a "kids" table.
Condemn me, will you? I am a horrible mother, forcing my children to sit at a separate table every time we sit down to break bread.
I'll admit, its part my wish that they had something their own size (leftover from when we retired their highchairs), part my love for their sweet little (cracked, stained) cartoony IKEA table, and part my, um, clutter issue. As in there's so much stuff piled on the kitchen table that there's really only room for two people to eat.
Lately, though, the boys have been begging to sit at the table with us, and this week I finally cleared enough room for them to do so.
Ah, and what gentlemanly dinner dates they were, chatty and (minorly) well-mannered. The topics of conversation were diverse - R2D2's native tongue, what will happen to this house when we grow up and move out, and how big of a truck will we need to move all that stuff. Plates were cleaned, seconds were requested.
I sat back a little and tried to take in the moment. Here we were, our little family, enjoying each other's company. These were my children. My children. My husband. When did I get to this point? And how did I get here so fast? It kind of felt like the first time in a long time that I'd had a second to block out my usual panic/stress/freak-out/overreact/grump/cranky/nervous/whatever-else-fits mode and just say to myself, "Yes, I wanted this. I needed this. I love this."
How could you not love two little kickers who's favorite fact of the moment is that IHOP never closes. How could I not love a husband who is in so much pain from keeping our yard looking nice (and it is much appreciated, my dear) that he suddenly acts like he's just turned 75 instead of 30?
Now if I could just find a place to put all that crap I cleaned off the table...