20

Last night my family sat down around our dinner table and enjoyed a nourishing, home-cooked meal while we lovingly and supportively talked about our respective days. But then I woke up. As I rolled over in bed -- onto the soggy, half-eaten Teddy Graham that made up the “grains” portion of my four-year-old’s dinner -- I checked off yet another mark on my robust maternal guilt list:  Our family dinner hour masquerades as the family drive-thru 10 minutes.

I think I feel guilty because I grew up with an unrealistic model of domestic bliss, a family in which Mom served a piping hot meal every night out of a magically uncluttered kitchen and Dad eagerly cleared the table. No, not my parents: The Brady Bunch. Carol and Mike really screwed the rest of us -- no nut allergies or aversions to leafy greens in their perky little blended family. No one in the Brady family ever flung themselves to the kitchen floor in the throes of a tantrum, screaming, “Not grilled-cheese sandwiches again!” (Which, I confess, I did just the other night).