When The Table Isn't Sacred
“Anders, if you blow bubbles into your milk again, I’m taking away your cup,” I snap.
Ellis rubs chili into her hair. As I turn my back to grab a washcloth, she dumps the rest of her bowl on the floor. The dog almost knocks me over as he pushes past my legs to clean up the scene—at least someone is having fun. The baby cries in the bouncy seat, his chest covered in spit-up. My head throbs as I drop to my knees (how fitting) to deal with the mess under the highchair.
“Mom, I need a plate,” says Anders.
“Why?” I say from the floor as I mop up chili with a paper towel.
“Because my chili is getting everywhere.”
A quick look up reveals that he’s right. The tray of his highchair and front of his shirt are splattered with red chili like a beef-laden Jackson Pollock painting. I take a deep breath and hand him a plate from the drawer.
“No, I don’t want the green plate! I need the piiiiink one!”
Ignoring him, I squeeze my eyes closed and tip my head back to release the growing tension in my neck. Another glance at the clock tells me Kyle is late, again. Bedtime can’t come soon enough.
I wipe spit-up and melted cheese from my work pants. There wasn’t time to change when we got home.
As I refill milk cups, my elbow accidentally knocks the stack of dirty containers from today’s daycare lunches to the floor. Ellis hurls a handful of chili at the wall, and Anders stops wailing long enough to cackle hysterically.
I bang my fist on the counter. “Where is your father?!”
***
I used to love dinner time. Before babies, our table was a sacred space.
When Kyle and I first got married, we ate Hamburger Helper and Bertolli frozen skillet meals for six months straight. He was working long hours at the dairy and I was commuting three hours a day to my job at a college in the city. It was all we could do to dump a bag of frozen vegetables and chicken into a pan at the end of the day and call it dinner.
Eventually I moved away from the freezer section and learned the art of cooking. A glass of red wine by my side, I crushed garlic cloves into tomato sauce, minced red onions for pineapple salsa, and roasted sweet potatoes until they caramelized. I found my footing as a cook as we settled into the rhythm of a life together.
In the midst of a busy season, sitting at the table (or occasionally standing at the kitchen counter) was the one place we came together. It wasn’t really about the food. Those newlywed years were a time of selfish posturing and learning how to grow together.
Some nights our conversations were light and fun. We planned imaginary trips to Italy, gossiped about college friends, and told stories about pompous professors (my work) or runaway cows (his). In the warmer months, we carried our plates and glasses to the deck to soak up the last dregs of daylight. Our dreams and plans mingled with the smell of fresh cut hay, the setting sun, and eventually the star-speckled country sky.
The table could also be a battleground: a place of wounded pride and unmet needs. We tossed heated words back and forth across the worn secondhand table. I didn’t understand the demands of the farm, he didn’t understand that I needed more time together. Other times we sat in stony silence, neither one willing to give in or admit defeat. Even when we were on the same team, we wrestled with hard things—negative pregnancy tests, impossibly long work hours, and the crushing weight of our own expectations.
We fell apart. We came back together.
It was far from perfect, but no matter how long the day, we found each other at the table.
***
Everything changed when our first child was born. Thanks to a persistent witching hour for the first few months of his life, dinner became a time I met with dread. Kyle and I took turns swaying with a screaming baby while the other adult shoveled food into their mouth. We barely tasted our meals, viewing them more as a means of survival than enjoyment.
In the postpartum months, friends and family filled our kitchen with food—rice and chicken casseroles, cheesy lasagnas, and seasoned beef on corn tortillas—but they could not take away the distance between us. As the steady stream of visitors and their warm dishes ebbed away, we were left to find our footing and find each other.
One night I asked Kyle, “Do you think we’ll ever have a real conversation again?” His shoulders lifted in a half shrug. We blearily locked eyes and grasped our hands together under the heavy baby in my arms.
“Maybe?”
The newborn phase eventually ended, but the table no longer felt sacred. Neither of us were fully there.
***
Today, dinner is a frazzled rush after long days at work and daycare, full of spilled milk, high volumes, and sheer chaos. The needs from our three small people are endless. I’m up and down—always on my feet—filling glasses, wiping spills, rinsing daycare dishes, breaking up fights, loading the dishwasher, and cutting fruit. I vacillate between hot flashes of temper and distracted attention.
Kyle is preoccupied too, eyes darting to his phone every time there’s a call or text from one of his farm employees. We all know that he could be called away at any moment. His body is here but his mind is not.
Our conversations follow a staccato beat, starting and stopping and losing their way. Instead of wine-warm lovers, we settle into our positions as co-cruise directors. “Did you find his library book?” “Can you cut her meat?” “Don’t forget you have a dentist appointment tomorrow.” Against the onslaught of constant kid interruptions, we give up on telling stories or finding true connection until later (or never).
Somehow the place that used to bring us together highlights how far we are apart.
***
Kyle is finally home—manure spattered, with tired eyes.
“Can you just pick him up?” I snap above the din. The dull ache that started at the base of my neck has spread to my forehead, squeezing like a vice and blurring my vision. All three kids are crying. I have nothing left.
“Fine.”
He shovels the last bite of cold chili into his mouth and picks the screaming baby up out of the Jumparoo. Henning screws up his face and, with impressive gusto and intestinal fortitude, fills his diaper. Suddenly, the kitchen is calm.
I roll my eyes skyward and Kyle bursts out laughing. Anders and Ellis giggle too, thankful for a break in the tension. A wave of laughter—pent up against gritted teeth and throbbing temples—rolls over me.
“Our life is ridiculous,” I say, smiling.
“I know,” he says.
“Glad we’re in this together.”
“Me too.”
As he walks past my stool on his way to change the baby, our eyes lock and he squeezes my shoulder. I breathe for the first time since getting home. The older kids resume their bickering, but my heart feels lighter under the gaze of his blue eyes.
The table may not feel sacred, but it is still holy.
Guest essay written by Jessica Folkema. Jessica is a working mom living on a dairy farm in rural Michigan. Almost ten years ago, she traded stilettos for rubber boots to marry a handsome dairy man and today they’re raising three kids, one border collie, and a huge herd of cows. When she’s not prepping daycare lunches or spreading the gospel of the Oxford comma at work, Jessica is writing in the margins and reading good fiction. You can find her on Instagram, Facebook, or on her neglected blog.