Call Me June Cleaver

Most days, you can call me June Cleaver, well, if June wore sweat pants, burned dinner, yelled at the “Beav” and his brother, and let a few curse words slip. June would totally be like that now days right?? If I lived up to the standards of shows like Leave It To Beaver and Ozzy and Harriet, I would be crazy. Batty. Nuttier than a fruitcake. My husband has not seen me in make-up since 2003, I am pretty sure. My kids claim to never have seen me in a dress, or skirt, or dress pants, or basically anything that doesn’t have an elastic waistband and made of flannel or fleece. So not June. My cooking is average. Some nights I may score in the above-average range. Usually that is for my creative use of hot dogs for the third time that week. Harriet Nelson would not be impressed. While I swear on Elvis’ grave that I clean my house and do laundry EVERY day, by the end of the day, it still looks like my house could be a contender on Hoarders. I can just see June and Harriet collectively shaking their heads in utter disapproval. It has taken all my 10 years of being a mother and 11 years of being a wife to be ok with the fact that my life will never be shown in black and white with the likes of June and Harriet or that I will never have a board on pinterest that makes sense or contain recipes with more than four ingredients. All that said, there is one thing I value that I think would make June and Harriet proud: family dinner. Now, given what I have admitted to already, obviously, our family dinner is not picture perfect. Firstly, it is not piping hot and ready with a smile when my husband comes through the door. Getting dinner ready before another adult is present to help with the kids, I have decided, is a completely unfair expectation. Next, my plates cups and silverware are a pretty eclectic collection consisting of items acquired at estate sales, Good Will, some are hand-me-downs, and my “good” china (from Target) that I got from my wedding sometimes gets thrown in the mix. The meal itself, I admit, is usually nothing to write home about, unless you’ve been in prison for the past 10 years. We live on gourmet recipes such as hot dogs and noodles (seriously folks, the recipe is in the name), fried bologna and onions (onions are considered gourmet, right?), and my crowd- pleaser, hamburger helper (hamburger optional depending on budgetary constraints). Thankfully, family dinner is not at all about the actual dinner. In our hectic world and lives, it is the only time my family collectively prays. We have made many the exciting announcement over family dinner, such as “you are going to have another brother or sister!” We have broken difficult news over family dinner, such as explaining the miscarriage of the previously announced baby. There are tears at family dinner. Usually when we enforce our strict rules about sitting on your bottom (not standing and eating), staying at the table (not running to see what is next on TV), and yes, finishing your vegetables, there are tears aplenty. There is also laughter at family dinner. Kids really do say the darnedest things if you really listen to them. Sometimes too much laughter brings us back to tears. Sometimes I feel like I have no sooner sat down to eat my gourmet bologna than I am right back up wiping down the table and sweeping up the corn that inevitably trickles to the floor every time child number 4 heaps his spoon and tries to take a bite. I would say that about 60% of the time, I wonder if it is really worth all the effort that goes into serving a meal 7 nights a week that we all sit at one table to eat together. All I know is that too soon, I will no longer have five loud, begging, pleading, fighting, mischief-making children in my house. I better try to enjoy it while I can.