Dinnertime: If it's such an important time of the day for the family, why do I dislike it so much?

Dinner. That six-letter word that plagues me on a daily basis; the time of day when, in theory, you gather 'round the dining room table with your family over a lovely meal and discuss the day's events, purportedly bonding in a mystical way that cements the ties a close-knit, non-dysfunctional family ought to.

In my opinion, this is one of the biggest bunches of baloney I've ever heard. Or, perhaps I just haven't figured out how to properly enjoy this wholesome family time. Pray, let me explain just why this is.

For starters, and I do not believe I am alone in this when I say, I strongly dislike, very nearly loathe, having to decide what on earth I am going to feed the hungry ones each night. My sweet husband, always trying to support me with his fine ideas (yes, you did correctly detect a tiny bit of sarcasm in the previous phrase), has suggested on a number of occasions how I might consider putting all of my meal ideas into some sort of computer program that would essentially tell me what I should cook each night. I strongly resist this for a number of reasons. First of all, this is the way he would do it, and I'll be damned if I'll do it the same way. (That's gratitude for you, isn't it?) Secondly, something inside my being is strangely uncomfortable with involving a computer in this situation at all. It's just wrong, alright? And, third, there is such a small number of things that my children will cheerfully eat, I fear the results would be depressing.

And so, we move on to the children. The little rats are so picky; I know most mothers out there have at least one child like this, and so they understand. Whenever I dare to try something new, I can just about guarantee at least 50% of said children are going to despise the creation. Oh the joy. I think there may only be about five meals I make that all four of my offspring actually like, so cooking to please the masses is an impossibility.

My oldest child (who also happens to be my laziest child; go figure) just the other day made a whopper of a statement that angered me to a new level of pissedoffedness. She asked me what was for dinner, and when I told her, she sighed, commenting under her breath, "Oh; not that again."

Just for the record, I can guarantee that she will never, not ever, utter those unholy words again.

Moving right along, once the boring, unwanted food is prepared and set at the table for consumption, I announce in my June Cleaver voice, "Dinner's ready" to all who reside here. This usually illicits what I'll call the anti-response; rarely anything happens, unless of course they are starving and anxiously awaiting the glorious event. Usually, they have to be told a multitude of times to go and wash their hands and come to the table. Next comes the comments about what's being served, which are varied and many. Following that, my husband will ask someone to offer a blessing upon the victuals we are about to consume; never a bad idea when it's something I've prepared, in my opinion. One of two things happens. Either the offspring asked to say the prayer will complain about having to do so, or an argument will ensue with one or several more of the offspring, ranging from, "But I wanted to say the prayer" or "But she got to say it last night" or "I only want seven green beans, because I'm seven" or "Mommy, I don't like this; can I please have chicken nuggets" or "Stop touching me" or assorted other things. (I sincerely hope at this point, mothers are out there reading this, nodding their collective heads, recognizing this scenario from their own lives. I've convinced myself it's not just me and my family; please do not inform me if your truth is contrary to mine.)

When finally the arguments cease, the blessing is offered. If the youngest of our brood is saying the prayer, it's always interesting to hear what is spoken. Sometimes we hear about knights and princes, sometimes a plea is made that no one be allowed to die, and rarely is there ever any mention of food. If the oldest says the blessing, we know in advance what will be said; it is the exact same prayer she says every time she's asked to do it. Creativity and variety are not her forte when offering prayers. At the close of the prayer, there is occasionally a comment made about "She didn't close her eyes" followed by a rebuttal of "How do you know" and a minor scuttle ensues. Finally, it is time to eat.

There is a frantic rush to be the first one to eat. Thankfully, we have arrived at that blessed place where our two oldest can completely fend for themselves. So, we have only to prepare plates for the two younger ones. A steady stream of talking continues, one person interrupting another, with no pause for chewing and swallowing; it all happens simultaneously. In vain, my husband and I attempt to talk about the day. It is pointless, since the kids become exceedingly interested in their father's business at that very time, and ask an unending laundry list of questions that they really don't have the patience to listen and hear the answers to. It is the continuous interruptions and ever-escalating volume level that drive me to near insanity each night at this time.

And so we come full circle. This nightly ritual, being the norm in my home at least, leaves me wondering why I keep hearing that having family dinner together each night is such an important event. It drives me insane. I ask you: How can that be good for the family?