We have always made family dinner a priority. Always. Even when Finn was a newborn, we put him in a little vibrating chair and pulled him next to the table so he could sit with us while we ate. And now that we have two kids, our little family of four fits properly and perfectly around our dining room table, one person per side. There’s a good bit of research out there showing the positive impact that regular family dinner has on kids’ health and development, but what I did not anticipate was the positive impact it would have on ME.

The past few weeks have been rough. Between the cold and wet winter, the near-constant illnesses, the chronic sleep deprivation that comes with babyhood, and Jay’s work schedule, we’ve all been feeling pretty wrecked. Like any parent, we did what we could to get by. Some nights, it felt impossible to make food that could pass as “dinner”, let alone get everyone seated around the table at the same time. At one point, during the height of pneumonia round #2 and Jay’s insane schedule, we would not have been fed at all if it weren’t for the pizza delivery person. And eating on the couch in front of the tv. You do what you have to do.

And while those pizza/couch nights felt easier in the moment and got us through a rough stretch, I recognize that they also made things more difficult because we felt disconnected from our usual rhythm and from each other. Now that things are settling down a bit (not the sleep deprivation, thank you baby) and we’re getting back to our normal dinner groove, I feel a profound respect for the restorative power of gathering around the table with my family.

There is something so grounding about the rituals involved in a family meal. I love the swirl of activity leading up to dinner and how the the words “dinner’s ready!” brings everyone to the table… eventually. Part of our dinner tradition is that we start with a prayer to give thanks and pray for those in need. Finn has totally embraced this tradition and every night declares: “how about we all pray!”, instead of one person leading the prayer, so now we go around the table and everyone says their bit.

After prayer, we dig in and break bread together. We talk about how our day went: what we did, who we saw, what we learned, where we went, how we feel, what was good, what was challenging and whatever else is on our minds. Sometimes there is music on in the background, sometimes Kids Corner, sometimes it’s just our voices, or our silence as we chow down. Some nights getting the kids to eat is easy and some nights there are battles (Eat your broccoli! Drink your water!). Some nights the conversation flows with ease and other nights there is lots of interrupting or whining or general “life with kids” chaos. Every night, though, there is laughter. Lots and lots of laughter. And just a general sense of belonging to a family, no matter how crazy life gets. This 20-30 minutes around the table is the core of our family life. Eventually the kids wrap up, clear their dishes, and begin their post-dinner play session. Jay and I usually linger around the table, finish our meal, and try to have a few more minutes of uninterrupted adult conversation before we begin the final push of the nightly routine.

No matter how difficult my day has been, family dinner always bolsters my mood and helps to shift my perspective. It is a time to slow down, develop traditions, engage in meaningful conversation, laugh, vent, eat delicious food, and connect with those I love. In a world obsessed with busyness and multi-tasking, sometimes the act of stopping, truly stopping, for family dinner feels like an act of rebellion. As our kids grow and life gets naturally busier, I know family dinner won’t be possible every single night, and that’s okay, it’s not the absolute I’m after, but rather the habit. My hope is that by habitually making the time and effort for this tradition and the rituals involved, just as our parents did for us, our family will always have this one constant, this one place of safe refuge and belonging no matter what life brings, just like we had as kids.

As my non-Italian father used to say each night as we sat down to eat (after we prayed, of course): Mangia! (eat!).