Insightful “06880” reader Heather Frimmer writes:
Our dining room is a disaster zone. Used for its intended purpose once, or at most twice a year, the room now serves as an ad hoc storage unit.
The sideboard is covered with paraphernalia for my husband’s volunteer EMS position — trauma shears, belt clips and extraneous badges. The extra dining chair in the corner is piled high with unwanted Amazon packages and shoe boxes, all awaiting printed labels before embarking on their return journeys.
The floor is covered with boxes of Polar seltzers cans and bottled waters from Costco, which haven’t yet earned their spot in the refrigerator.
Amongst this chaos, one thing is sacrosanct. The dining room table stands in the center of the room, untouched and oblivious to the disorder surrounding it.
The smooth, rich mahogany reflects the light coming through the front window. Four legs resemble the rear haunches of a lion, creating a strong, regal stance.
No one and nothing touches that table.
The Frimmer family, back in the day.
My husband and I bought the piece for our first home, a small condo in Norwalk. Recently engaged, we were eager to decorate our shared space.
When his mother suggested we peruse the expensive furniture store above Starbucks in downtown Westport, we obeyed. She is a woman of exquisite taste, and we knew nothing about home furnishings or where to acquire them.
Up to that point, the only furniture I’d ever purchased had been a Papasan chair for my dorm room, and a simple metal bed frame and mattress.
In the fancy store, we immediately knew we were in over our heads. When the saleswoman insisted the dining table would work perfectly in our room, we nodded in agreement and handed over our credit card.
We also created an elaborate wedding registry at Bed, Bath & Beyond. Armed with a scanner, we scanned everything in sight. China with gilded edges, cut crystal glasses, silver cutlery and various appliances we thought we needed. A quesadilla maker, an espresso machine and a charcuterie board with built-in drawers were all must-haves.
We would fill our home with lovely things, wake up cuddled in each other’s embrace, and create a wonderful family filled with endless love and joy. Our life together would be smooth and easy, and go exactly as we’d planned.
Twenty-three years, 2 nearly grown children and a dog later, we’ve faced our share of bumps in the road.
The Frimmers, much more recently.
Our older child came out as transgender, and changed their name and pronouns. Chronic illnesses, trips to the emergency room and caring for ailing parents have all marred the perfect picture, or perhaps made it more colorful and nuanced.
Because we received less than a full complement of tableware from our registry, I can count the number of times we’ve used it on one hand.
The waffle iron conked out during its first test run. The ice cream maker escaped its box last year, only to be locked back away when the final product turned out crystallized and unappealing.
Life, and more specifically marriage, is messy, cluttered and unpredictable, which brings me back to our dining room.
This year we hosted Thanksgiving dinner for my husband’s family, including our teenage niece and nephew. In the days leading up to the holiday it was all hands on deck: making grocery lists, procuring the necessary ingredients and preparing multiple dishes, and ridding the dining room of its usual clutter.
Thanksgiving dinner …
After we stuffed ourselves with turkey, stuffing and cranberry sauce, we cleared the dishes and moved on to the entertainment: the holiday grab bag extravaganza.
We arranged our gifts on the coffee table in the living room, chose numbers and unwrapped packages. My 16-year-old son was inordinately proud of the gift he’d contributed, a portable ping pong net suitable for any table.
Somehow, after all the trading and finagling, he ended up with his own gift, likely his secret plan all along.
He and my nephew attached the net to our kitchen table, but the round shape didn’t lend itself to the game. When they tried the coffee table, they had to play from their knees, an uncomfortable proposition.
That’s when the boys asked if they could use the dining room table instead.
I refused. If they played there, the top would be covered in permanent dings and scuff marks in no time. I couldn’t allow that.
But by the time I’d washed the serving platters, loaded the dishwasher and dried my hands, a rousing game had begun.
… and ping pong.
As I went to put a stop to the nonsense, the sounds from the dining room gave me pause. Amid the clicking of the ball on the wood surface, there was camaraderie, chatting and laughter — so much laughter.
All 4 kids gathered around the table, playing, giggling and cheering each other on.
Rather than worrying about SAT scores or friendship drama or whether their gender-affirming medications would be available for the next 4 years, they were enjoying each other with the help of a simple game.
How could I put my foot down now?
This montage was my dessert, more delicious than pecan pie or apple cake could ever be. I made eye contact with my son, and gave a nod of assent.
Since then he’s asked me to play with him every day, often sharing news from his life as he serves, volleys and puts extra spin on the ball.
So my dining room will continue to accumulate unwanted packages and Costco purchases. And now our precious table will collect scratches and scrapes, well deserved scars signifying a worldly maturity.
If and when we use the table for dining once again, likely not before next Thanksgiving, I’ll throw a tablecloth over the top and call it a day.
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