Perfectly Imperfect

We’re not really known for quiet, mannered dinners. I’m not even sure we’ve really tried. Maybe there was a brief phase when I imagined weeknight meals would look a little more composed. Everyone gathered neatly around the table. Meaningful conversations. Plates cleared without the finesse of a hostage negotiator.

But that’s just not us.

The front door flies open and the apartment immediately fills with the kind of boisterous noise I’ve grown to love. Shoes land wherever they feel like landing. Someone looks for their charger. Someone sniffs at the pots bubbling away on the stove.

Outside, the city is still moving. Inside, the same. Beautifully chaotic.

The thing about raising a family in the city is that life tends to happen in close quarters. There are no sprawling mudrooms. No second family room. No place to send the noise.

Everything happens together. Homework is toiled over on the kitchen counter. Guitar lessons a few steps away in the living room. A load of laundry waits to be folded on the dining room table. The same table where we gather every night. Well, try to gather. Most nights.

Tonight is one of those nights. Organic tubetti with grilled broccolini and a healthy debate over portion sizes.

My eldest presents his case with the confidence of a trial attorney. The accused, our youngest, disagrees.

My attempts to mediate falls on deaf ears but the conversation quickly moves on. It always does. And nobody ever remembers the verdict.

That's the funny thing about family dinners. They rarely follow a straight line – at least ours don’t. Stories begin and never reach conclusions. Questions get interrupted and never returned to again. Topics change without warning.

And we’re never bothered by this. In fact, it's part of the charm. For that one precious hour each evening, the day slowly unwinds. The schedules stop dictating every minute. The rush gives way to something softer.

I’m sure there will come a day when the stories will eventually stop being volunteered so freely. The questions that seem neverending now, may one day become rare. All that childlike wonder will become a thing of the past.

One day, the shoes won’t be a tripping hazard. The arguments over portions will disappear. The apartment will be quiet.

Far quieter than I want it to be.

But tonight isn’t that night. Tonight, the table is full. The conversation is loud. And the pasta is warm and filling.

It’s perfect. Because it’s not.