I had such a magic moment this past Christmas. Mali asked to make a gingerbread house so he could eat it, and that’s what we did. As we worked, I looked down and realized I was sitting at the very same table I’ve sat with my own kiddos—and so, so many other kiddos—over the last 25 years.
I always loved that when my kids were younger, my home was the home. It stayed full of friends, friends of friends, foster kiddos, kids in crisis, and kids who had no idea what crisis was.
Looking through old pictures brought it all back. This table has held every season of our lives.
It’s been covered in bright plastic tablecloths for Easter egg dyeing with the little ones, and strewn with paint bottles, paper plates, and glitter for Christmas ornament making. It’s held huge holiday spreads where we had to squeeze in extra chairs and bench seats just to make sure everyone had a spot. It’s been the hub for game nights, puzzles spread out across the wood, Mr. Potato Head creations, late-night chatter, and quiet mornings over plates of food.
It is covered in dents and scratches, and stained from decades of art projects and shared meals. But every single mark tells a story. It is one of the things I can look to and remember, know better, and smile.
These photos are in no particular order, and some of my favorites aren’t digitized, but here is a little piece of what I mean about the table.
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