For whom the (dinner) bell tolls

These days, a true "everyone's here" kind of family dinner is rare. But when it happens, it's something to behold. Not that I'd actually want anyone to behold. If they saw it, I don't think they'd get it. And by "get it", I mean approve. But that's okay I guess. Each family seems to operate by it's own set of rules. Formal. Casual. Ours. Apparently as long as everyone knows them and mostly plays along, things seem to work out. The rules for dinner at our place go something like this:

If home, Hailey enters dinnertime at a dead run. Does she have the metabolic demeanor of a garden shrew? Is she secretly starring in a play on starvation? Who knows. But by the time you've got your plate together she's usually mulling the prospect of seconds. Saving grace: She's a vegetarian... some of the best stuff is still plentiful.

Evan would stand for dinner if we let him. Because we won't, he typically sits at least 24 inches from the table and at an angle that implies escape . I'm guessing this is his way of remaining unaffiliated with dinner should it turn out to include anything with a texture he once coined as "smeary". We used to insist he try the smeary stuff. Potatoes Au Gratin yakked on the table caused a rethink on the policy.

Eden isn't picky. Or is she? After almost 16 years, we're still not sure. I can't for the life of me remember what she loves or hates until we set it down in front of her. Inevitably she'll tell us, and it's always the opposite of what we thought. She's up to something. Or maybe we just don't listen closely enough. She is the middle child after all.

I dutifully overeat
Tracy laughs and referees.
Someone will spew their beverage or nearly choke.
Everyone will be called "fatty".

It's not pretty, but it works.