I am sure that the stark contrast of noise and quietness in the house
will be obvious all too soon, Maman.
We all love you and are so happy to make it work this year.
Sunday Family Dinners
Every Sunday we have dinner with Lindsay’s mom, sister and her husband, their two kids, and our two kids. I suspect someone drops off some extra kids too, and possibly a raccoon. It’s mayhem, and a tradition that’s a vestige of a bygone century when children were quiet when asked; sat down when told; ate at “dinner time;” and hardly ever drew on each other’s faces. But those days are behind us, packed-up in a time capsule with joysticks, televisions with knobs, and cars without seat belts.
We rotate hosting duties, and each Sunday the nine of us cram into a home where the adults attempt to converse amidst the cacophony of pillow fort building and arguments over the propriety of a left-footed rollerblade. Lindsay’s mom (known as “Muma” to the kids) grew up during the time when children were seen but not heard, and, thankfully, has a great sense of humor about this new era in which children are both heard and seen, frequently in excess while sitting on a parent’s lap singing about how gross the food is. I know it’s difficult for members of her generation to observe the 21st century practice of raising free-range kids, but she has the lovely gift of being able to laugh her way through insanity.
We try to tell the kids, “If you’re going to be loud, go down into the basement,” and sometimes they do. But for reasons only those under the age of seven understand, it’s not quite as fun to crank Greensleeves on a Casio Keyboard while smattering the rugs with dollops of Play-Doh if grown-ups aren’t nearby trying to discuss the best way to cook corn on the cob.
Of the three houses used on Sunday evenings, ours has the most peculiar acoustic quality, which, for a studio drummer, might be pretty sweet, but there’s no Rod Morgenstein here (famous studio drummer and member of the tragically underrated band, Winger.) With high ceilings and walls unadorned with treble-absorbing artwork, our “open layout” living area sounds more like a racquetball court than a home. After everyone’s left, I often find that my ears are ringing. Of course, the place is completely trashed: dishes everywhere, puzzle pieces wedged into the heating vents, an apple slice squished into the garlic press, and any other myriad scraps of evidence suggesting that a multi-generational get-together was ruled by Team Kindergarten.
But as stressful as it is—especially for the two non-drinking adults who can’t dull their senses with Trader Joe’s Sauvignon Blanc—I love the ritual. It’s comforting to know that each week our kids will see their grandma, aunt, uncle and cousins; and my wife will see her sister, mother and brother-in-law. As an only child, I get to pretend for a few hours that I’m part of a big loud family. Despite no blood relation, I can be myself around them. Sometimes, that “self” sits quietly in the corner, rubbing its temples for 10 minutes before offering to stir something, locate the Band Aids, or officiate a made-up game that apparently has no rules. And as far as I can tell, that’s OK. If it’s not, please, let me know. I kind of figured this is what it would be like to move here, and I’m glad we did.
0 comments:
Post a Comment