Updated: Oct. 29, 2020
Originally Published: April 5, 2015
During family gatherings in my childhood, the adults always convened around the proper dining table, while us kids were relegated to the living room, squeezed around a wobbly card table with mismatched folding chairs and a few vintage seats from my grandparents’ collection. The food and drinks were strictly off-limits to us; our parents would serve us from their table, delivering our meals like we were dining in a distant kingdom.
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As we sat at the kids’ table, our expectations were clear: maintain silence, behave, and remain seated. If we required anything, we would call out to our parents. Approaching the adult table was strictly forbidden. If we dared to do so, conversations would halt abruptly, and one of our parents would quickly intervene, fetching whatever we needed and sending us back to our designated area. My sister and I often found ourselves at the kids’ table with our cousins, all boys who were far from engaging conversationalists. They focused on devouring their food, and all we saw were the tops of their heads. Even if they had been more talkative, my desire to be at the grownup table overshadowed everything else.
To me, the adult table represented the heart of the gathering; laughter, whispers, and animated discussions floated over to us. I could hear glasses clinking and plates being passed around. It was the realm of the GROWNUPS, and I yearned to join their ranks. Grownups commanded respect, and their words were valued. More importantly, they had exclusive access to the best stories and jokes.
I once asked my parents when I could finally sit at the adult table, and my mother replied that she didn’t get to sit there until she was married. That notion didn’t sit well with me; I had a plan to remain single and live by the ocean with a multitude of cats. My dream was to be “independently wealthy,” so how was I supposed to make my transition into adulthood?
As time passed, my cousins and I grew, and our parents became less diligent about setting up that card table, eventually realizing they could extend the dining table. Ultimately, the kids’ table was abandoned. Yet, I never shed the feeling of being second-rate, convinced I was missing out on all the exciting, genuine experiences.
Now, as I write, I channel that sense of longing, striving to offer young readers the respect, attention, and honesty they deserve. I save my most captivating stories—especially the surprising and humorous ones—for them, as I recall how much I enjoyed eavesdropping on such tales.
While the reality is that children must endure their time at the kids’ table, I intend to pull up a folding chair and share some secrets with them. Here’s one: Sitting at the grownup table can become monotonous far quicker than you might think. So do we all.
This article was originally published on April 5, 2015.
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Summary
Growing up, I always felt the pang of longing for the adult table during family gatherings, where laughter and good stories flourished. As I reflect on those childhood experiences, I aim to offer young readers the respect and engaging narratives they deserve. While they may have to wait their turn at the kids’ table, I’m here to share a few secrets about adulthood with them.