The world begins at a kitchen table. My mother taught me this. Women taught me this.
The world begins at a kitchen table, and so do we.
It's where the babies bang on their highchair trays, little hands waving for you to spoon more food faster.
Where later they practice their pincer grips by picking up Cheerios. They push a little hoop around so long the mom has to sit on her on her own hands trying not to help. The grandma cheers them on, because she already knows eventually they'll get it.
Later, the toddler practices their new words at supper. Eventually, one evening they demand a "real" fork in place of their plastic baby spoon, and we watch them anxiously as they practice with that scary trident.
The table my parents sanded and refinished for me is where I first heard about my son's school day, "Fine," and my daughter's,"Also fine."
It's where we lingered after supper to play games, because that was when we would actually hear about how their days went.
One afternoon after school, I taught them to play poker at that table just so I wouldn't have to play Monopoly for the eleventeenth time. I gathered all the change in the house, and my daughter won $2.60. My son was a good player, but couldn't resist going, "All in!" on every hand. That night with their dad, they asked him to play. When he got out pretzel sticks for betting, they said, "Pfffttt, we play for money." And they did. Years later in high school, the youngest would hustle her friends at Ping Pong club and make money for more Shein crop tops.
After the divorce, I took my table to the new apartment. There were only three of us. It was different. It was weird. Having a family table felt like a lie. It went against a wall with the fourth chair at my desk. I mourned and fretted the change for them. We ate in front of the tv like we'd never been allowed in the past. It was easier. Different was uncomfortable, but backwards was impossible.
Eventually though, the little table became something else.
The youngest woman in the home found the table. My daughter would come in from school, and go straight to the table. She'd lean against the wall (so the wall wasn't so sad after all), and she'd have a little privacy on her phone. As I passed by, I'd hear young voices from Facetime call, "Hey, Miss Pam!" I loved it, but it was a time not to walk around in your pajamas too much.
She and her friend wrote raps for history projects at the table. They'd practice over and over until they could record it without laughing, taking breaks to eat premade ham and cheese sliders from Food Lion.
In high school, she and her friends painted on little canvases at the table, made gingerbread houses, whispered about things when I passed to get something out of the oven. No, not oven. Let's be honest, part of the new place was that not much happened in that oven...
which proves that kitchen tables aren't always about food, I guess. And they aren't always what they begin as. Neither are we.
