Your dinner plate is not a frisbee.

It's a Tuesday night. I rush in from work at 6...give quick hugs, change my clothes...and start rinsing broccoli without really looking at anyone. Derek joins in for dinner by 6:30.

And...we're off! :
Ella, set the table. No, Carson doesn't get a knife. Sit down please.
Derek. Derek. Derek. Sit down. What are you looking for?
Close your eyes when we pray. Don't pick your nose.
Carson, eat your dinner. Pass the butter. Where is Ella now?
What happened to your napkin? Does anyone realize that Carson is over there eating a pile of ketchup with a spoon? Somebody get a towel.
How was your day? Ella, get your fork out of your drink.
Turn down the TV...or how about OFF? (Who was watching Terminator 2, anyway?)
Carson, don't throw your food. Stop spitting. Eat your dinner.

6 to 8pm is the witching hour - so in the summer, we have this thing every couple of weeks: if we have a night where everyone ingests at least one vegetable, and our only "fast" food is that which has been launched by Carson, then we load up in the car after dinner and head to Dairy Queen.

For $5, we can all tailgate in the back of my Escape—including Nellie Belly—in the parking lot and have a half hour of silence and smiles. There is no table. Or booster seat. There is no "pass the napkins," because there are no drips.



Ah, summer.