Life is busy. Actually it’s insanely crazy. A typical day includes eight hours in school, work and some sort of activity related to the eight hours I just spent in compulsory education. In spite of this, I usually am able to eat dinner with my family. Although minor, I generally enjoy eating dinner with my parents and three younger siblings.

A hot meal needs companionship. Our family companionship includes watching someone spill her milk right before we all sit down or laughing at someone because of his inability to fully communicate. Miscommunication is fairly indicative of my family.

The dinner table is meant to be a time for communication, at least that’s what my mother is always telling me. She says it’s always like a game of catch: one person catches the ball and then throws it back, and the game continues. Too bad I’m not very athletic.

Honestly, sometimes the conversation at the dinner table suffers. It comes down to making smacking noises, giggling and snorting at one another. It’s not exactly refined table conversation.

There are other times when a conversation ensues that includes just a few of our family. Sometimes my dad and I talk about calculus and its applications, much to the dismay of my 13 year old sister. On the other hand, we get a full news report on the activities of a second grader. I know on a day-to-day basis which second graders are good or naughty. I am kept fully abreast on the difficulty of the vocabulary tests of my 16 year old brother.

Each evening, supper is enjoyable. It’s not to say that I love every conversation. I have had my share of conversations that upset me.

Dinner with my family is the backbone to our relationships. It provides a foundation for our ability to make fun of each other, annoy each other and meddle in each other’s lives. I might despise the work that goes into cleaning up dinner, but even doing dirty dishes is worth the time it takes to converse with my family.