WHEN I was growing up we never really ate dinner together as a family.
The four of us children would take our dinner to either our desk where we were doing homework or eat in front of the television. Dad was usually working and I don’t actually remember my mum ever eating.
The exception to this reality was barbecue days.
I absolutely loved barbecue days because it meant the six of us were together not only eating, but playing, talking and laughing.
This meal was incredibly unconventional, borderline unsanitary, and there was no table for table manners to exist, but it was filled with so much joy, unity and banter that it still resonates with me as one of my favourite childhood memories.
This is the exact level of enjoyment that I always dreamt I could replicate within my own home at dinner time.
Boy, did I set myself up for disappointment.
The reality of the shared meal within my family home is nothing short of a volcanic explosion of emotions fused with unwanted vegetables, target practice and a miniature nudist seated in the middle of the table.
Each day I accept the challenge of preparing a gluten-free, dairy-free, nut-free, preservative-free and minimal-eggs-allowed nutritious meal from scratch with the sole aim of it being edible and exciting.
My tribe of princesses, however, act as though I have forced them to go forage for berries, gut an animal themselves and serve it with leaves and sticks.
Our mealtime usually looks something like this:
The seven-week-old baby, let’s call her Lah Lah, needs constant human contact as the meal starts to be prepared.
There is a lot of added chaos in the mix with “Moo”, our toddler, tugging at my legs and screaming, the four-year-old “B” poking her and negotiating her terms for stopping and the 11-year-old “E” having her hourly ‘Why can’t I be an only child?’ complaint.
The meal is dished and cue the screams. “B” is not ready for tea. She wants to keep playing.
Renegotiate terms for appropriate eating time and watch the meals I just spent hours preparing go cold.
Finally, play time is up and “B” is ready to eat. I individually microwave each meal.
She sits herself at the table, looks down at her fabulously presented meal to complaints of “wrong plate”, “wrong fork”, “wrong colour cup”, “wrong meal” and so on.
The toddler, Moo, then decides that at this time of night that wearing clothes is just way too much to handle. She strips off butt naked, climbs onto the table and starts to steal food off B’s plate.
A plate is knocked onto the floor, cutlery is thrown across the room and cue newborn baby cries for a feed.
“E” at this point decides she has not had nearly enough attention and starts playing her favourite meal time game of “Master Mum”.
This game involves her taking a small morsel of her meal on her fork, pursing her lips and critiquing the meal just like MasterChef. The critique is never nice.
At this point my husband questions why family meal time is so important as he would actually rather stab himself in the eye with the fork full of pumpkin that was just thrown at him.
I question it too sometimes.
Wouldn’t it just be easier if I let E eat in her room, B and Moo eat from a grazing plate while playing, and hubby and I eat together in silence once the kids are in bed?
Of course it would be, but it in turn we would lose so much.
Amongst the chaos at dinner time, we do get to talk about our day and hubby and I get to voice our shared enjoyment and appreciation of these beautiful, adventurous, exciting girls we have in front of us.
We get to hear about school and pre-school drama and discuss strategies for dealing with issues.
Best of all, we get to laugh at our own unconventional, unhygienic and table manners-lacking mealtime that I always dreamt I would have.
Katrina Ryan is a Manangatang mother-of-four. When she’s not cooking, cleaning or caring for her four beautiful daughters, Katrina enjoys writing about the (often hilarious) trials and tribulations of motherhood in the Mallee.
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