The Kiddie Table - November 2004

Thanksgiving and the holidays always evoke memories of big family dinners back home. We were never a formal family, as in we never dressed up for these meals, as the sitcom families did. Maybe it was because we lived in Arizona where “dressing up” meant you wore a T-shirt instead of a tank top.

But one tradition in our family that seems to be consistent in many families is that of the Kiddie Table -- that rickety old card table that Mom drags out for these occasions. Like the name indicated, it was where the kids were relegated to, as the “big” table was already overcrowded with adults. The Big Table had a festive cloth tablecloth. The Kiddie Table was draped with a paper tablecloth. The folks at the Big Table ate off china and drank from crystal goblets. The kids at the Kiddie Table had paper plates and cups.

The Kiddie Table was where my sister, other younger guests and I would act like baboons, and try to crack each other up so beverages would squirt out of our noses. Somebody would invariably stick olives on their fingers, or flick mashed potatoes in someone’s hair (always a Kiddie Table Klassic! And, yes, you have to spell it with a K.).

As I reached my teens, I hated the Kiddie Table. At 16, I already fancied myself a sophisticated lady. I understood why I couldn’t have wine, but why should I have to drink any beverage out of a Dixie Riddle Cup at my age? All of us “kids” were not only getting older, but we were getting bigger, and the Kiddie Table was becoming an uncomfortable squeeze.

In my teens, I joked that someone would have to die in order for anyone to move up to the Kiddie Table. But now, with my relatives getting older, that joke isn’t funny anymore because unfortunately, it’s true.

Sitting at the sturdy mahogany Big Table, in the cushioned chairs, at some point, it dawns on me that I’m taking the place of someone who isn’t there anymore. My father is sitting where my Grandfather once sat. My mother is sitting where my Grandmother once sat. I start thinking of the next logical steps….

And I go right back down to the Kiddie Table, with the next generation of baboons. My excuse in the last two years has been that I need to be near my daughter to make sure she behaves. So I wedge myself in front of a table corner that will be poking me in the sternum throughout the meal, and proceed to put olives on my fingers.