Regressing to the Children's Table

With many gatherings as I was growing up, I was relegated to the children's table (or kids' table). Well, I was a child, after all. Even in college, I was a member of the kid's table. Even before I knew what a tryptophan-induced coma was, I was sitting at the kiddie table.

Part of the reason I did not graduate to the adult table was that I was one of the older cousins and none of the cousins were having kiddies of their own, even though cousin Robert was doing everything in his power to impregnate his entire high school senior class. Robert was, and is, a man slut. He once told me that he thought women were only meant to be play toys of his, and, well, he treated them that way. In fact, he still treats them, more or less, that way.

Back to my children's table at Thanksgiving. This year I went back to the children's table. We did not have enough room at the adult table, and since I am the most petite adult, I was relegated to the kiddie table.

So I spent the evening, listening to small children argue about who was older than whom. I, by the way, was a heck of a lot older than the rest of the children, and so I won every argument. Other than the lack of sparkling conversation, I also did not get some of the sides – no salad was at the kiddie table, and thankfully, the cranberries that looked like Jello® was on our table (instead of the cranberries that looked like cranberries). I also had to go to the big person table for my yearly supply of ham (two bites, but religiously, I eat two bites of ham per year).

One good thing about the kiddies table is that this table gets desert first – and if you want chocolate pie, the odds are against having chocolate pie at the adult's table (the kids decimate the chocolate pies).

I am a bit hungover today. Not from alcohol, but from the long weekend.

Happy Monday, you people!