THE GOOD STUFF

I have already admitted that fuss is in my DNA.

I may also harbor lunatic tendencies, but do not worry.  All great rulers do.

Rewind.  My kids are little, Dora-the-Explorer little.

We buy an oak table for the kitchen in our new house. It is not hand-me-down or first-apartment nice. It's Big-People nice.

I am determined that my 1, 3, 6 and 7 year old children will not ruin it.

Enter Glass-Guardian: an 8 ft long by 3 ft wide stupidly expensive plate of glass that sits atop the table.

Every time a little person's juice, milk, applesauce or ice cream topples over, up comes the glass, and out comes the Windex. Two annoyed big people then wipe up the mess; the one with the larger muscles lifts and holds the glass, the other cleans and dries the glass.

True story.

I kept that silly table spotless for eight years. Then we went out of town, and a family who borrowed our house spilled juice, yogurt, and milk on the table, without thinking to lift and wipe the glass. The moment I arrived home from vacation, nine random blobs of curdled, black gunk-trapped and oozing between Glass Guardian and Freshly-Warped-&-Chipped kitchen table shouted at me: "Well, that was worth all those years of time and effort, wasn't it?!"

 

Just like stain stick.

Fast forward a few years.  Kids are Sponge-Bob older. We are hosting a holiday dinner. The dining room table is covered with china, silverware, stemware, candles, flowers and linen napkins fanning out of crystal goblets. The other tables are set with every-day place settings, a candle or flowers. In the chaos that ensues as thirty people sit down to eat, I realize that my husband and children are at the kitchen table, or squished between a Tiny Tots plastic picnic table and bench.

Had aliens entered our home and listed the earthlings of importance-purely based on the tables where individuals sat for that holiday dinner- the names of my children and spouse would be listed on lines 1-5 in the 'Insignificant Nothings' column.

That very next day the kids came home from school and noted their dining room in holiday mode. “Who's coming for dinner?” they asked.

“The most important earthlings in the universe,” I answered. (I didn't really say that, but it works here, don't you think?)

My kids had made it to both the Big People Room and the Big People Table. Delight- on steroids. We lit candles, spread linen napkins across our laps, ate spaghetti and meatballs on china plates, and drank milk from martini glasses. I did not say, "Be careful not to spill!" one single time.

Epiphanies occur at the craziest moments. That night, I determined that every stain or chip on our furniture would henceforth be a memory of a great family meal, moment, or conversation. Our good stuff would no longer sparkle behind plates of glass for most of the year- like objects in a museum. Instead, I'd use it-weekly, if possible- for the company I most wanted to feel special; the people I live with every day.

Yes, I cringe every time one of my kids lifts a serrated knife while dining at the Big People table. Then I remember Glass Guardian. Stain stick. Alien lists. And I shut up.

 

Thanksgiving has come and gone. You've put away all your good stuff.

 

Take it out.  Use it on a Monday. Or when it rains. On a school snow day, or a quiet Sunday night.

Sip your afternoon tea from a china cup. It will taste better, honest.

Delight. On steroids. 

QUING Hereby Decrees:  Use the good stuff.  Or give it to me.