I call, “Time to eat.”
No one comes.
The sink is stacked high with dishes. Silverware is gone.
Last night, the kids dug through the dirty pile just to find a spoon for ice cream, groaning as if washing their own dish was some unbearable crime.
I call again, “Time to eat!”
Still nothing.
Cooking for kids can feel thankless. Dinner is ready, food hot, and no one is in sight.
I try one more time, stretching out the “eeeaaat” with that sharp edge they know too well.
Then I add, “First one to the table gets a clean fork.”
Suddenly, a stampede.
Feet thudding through the living room.
My two oldest skid onto the linoleum like baseball players sliding into home.
The youngest is body-checked onto the couch. She whines, “Not fair.”
An argument flares.
“I’m first.”
“No, I was first.”
I cut in. “You’re both first. Sit down, my little stinks.”
And just like that, they do.
Relief washes over me.
Dinner is still hot.
A chorus of “yays” bursts out as they see pesto pasta with chicken and mushrooms. Their favorite.
They pass the Romano cheese around like a sacred offering.
In that moment,
I feel something loosen.
It doesn’t matter that I’m still at the sink, scrubbing forks.
What matters is that they’re here. All of them. Sharing food. Sharing the day.
These are the nights that build memory without trying. Nights when irritation softens, when laughter rises from the chaos, and when love shows itself in the simplest form…
just being at the table together.
These are days to remember.