Save Me a Seat at the Kids Table

When I was little I dreaded sitting at the kids table. It was banished to the bowels of the basement, and the worst part – it was full of all my boy cousins. Who had a knack for throwing food and being EXTREMELY loud for no apparent reason other than to hear the sound of their own obnoxious voices.

As the only girl at a table full of testosterone, I was WAY too mature for all that silliness and begged my dad to let me sit at the big table, but to no avail.
I’m not sure at what point I was finally allowed at the “big person” table, I think I was older than nine, but younger than sixteen. Honestly, I think the main reason I was finally allowed at the table had more to do with space than my actual age.
Once I made it to the secret club of the adult table, I was fascinated by the quiet hum of intellectual conversation. But as the years passed the thrill wore off, and the adult table was too formal. I wanted FUN.
Now that I have kids of my own, I let them decide where they would like to sit. Ironically, they choose the kid’s table. Forming their own little group with their version of intellectual conversation. Inevitably I find myself eavesdropping, drawn to their animated discussions. Like “who is fastest? Superman or the Flash.” or “Did you know I pooped today.” While at my table, the adults blather on and on about the economy, politics or the latest Hollywood gossip.
The urge to just scoot my chair over just a bit so I can join themĀ is overwhelming. I envy their relaxed conversation and unbridled laughter.
So, this year I’m going to have them join us, so they can show the adults how to have a good time. Even if we talk about poop.

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