Every Sunday we have dinner with Lindsay’s mom, sister and her husband, their two kids, and our two kids. I suspect someone drops off some extra kids too, and possibly a raccoon. It’s mayhem, and a tradition that’s a vestige of a bygone century when children were quiet when asked; sat down when told; ate at “dinner time;” and hardly ever drew on each other’s faces. But those days are behind us, packed-up in a time capsule with joysticks, televisions with knobs, and cars without seat belts.
We rotate hosting duties, and each Sunday the nine of us cram into a home where the adults attempt to converse amidst the cacophony of pillow fort building and arguments over the propriety of a left-footed rollerblade.