Tales from the Kitchen Table

Like most kitchen tables, ours too has many stories to tell if it could talk.  Board games, meal times, snack times and sometimes simply just conversation seem to all revolve around the kitchen table.  In the past couple of days a few tales from the kitchen table have already ingrained themselves into my mind just like the dark lines and swirls are ingrained within the reddish brown hue of our circular teak wood table top...

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As Adrian and I sat across from one another during a mid-afternoon snack he kept continually clearing his throat.  I won't deny that worries of compulsive disorder and turrets entered my mind at the constant sound.  It was driving me a bit mad so I asked him, "You have something need to clear in your throat Aidy?"

"Yeah.  It's a butterfly."

Chew, chew, chew.  Throat clear, throat clear, throat clear.

Throat clear.

He spoke up again.

"Nah, it's a moose."

So much for a frog.

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Playing a board game with Adrian at the kitchen table while my little one sleeps, Adrian tried to pull a fast one.

Me, "You cheated!  You're a total cheater!"

It was in jest (mostly).  I really am a gracious game player (not according to my husband - especially if if Monopoly is the game of choice) and quite honestly I had no idea he even knew what 'cheating' meant (this is true).

Apparently he did know exactly what I was saying...

He looked at me with an expression of mock hurt and said, "Awwww, don't say that.  That's not very nice."

Well.  He should know better than to try and pull a fast one on his Mother.  Nothing gets past me.

Or at least I have to get him to believe that until he's over the age of 30.

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After a beautiful evening at the park where both my sons thought sand angels would be a great idea, John was upstairs running a bath for them while I doled out snacks of milk and cheerios, buttered bread and wheat thins at the kitchen table.

Clearly the rigatoni doesn't fall far from the tree.  We love our carbs here.

Finley begins telling me a (somewhat stilted) story pointed animatedly at his leg, "A street.  I fell.  Bike. Hurts.  A booboo."

"Yes, you did fall in the street off your bike.  Does your leg still hurt?"

"Yeth.  Kiss." (he has the most adorable lisp - but only when he says yes.)

I leaned down and gave him a kiss on his shin.

"No!  Knee."

I kissed his knee, still deliciously soft and round and chubby at the sweet age of two.

"All better?"

"Yeth."

He turned back to the serious business of cereal eating, tilting his bowl toward him and scooping out the perfect ratio of sweetened milk to cheerios.

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I sat at the table where so many memories in this beautiful family life of mine have already imbedded themselves into my memory. My heart twanged with nostalgia and a teeny bit of heartbreak that happens often when it hits me how big this love is.

Indescribably big.

I watched my boys contentedly munch away, not a care in the world except for when the next snack would be or what game to play next and I thought, if only kissing boo-boos could always be so sufficient to solving life's pain, wouldn't life be so grand.

And then I caught myself and took in the moment for what it was.  I turned the thought around in my mind, and reminded myself as I often do..."This life of mine...right here, right now...is so, so incredibly grand."

Blessed my life, blessed my family, blessed this kitchen table.