My husband and I both work outside the home. We rush at the end of the day to pick up our 3 and 5-year-old girls and hurry home, racing all the way. No matter how we cut it, we never make it before 6pm.
Bedtime is at 7:15.
It takes a concerted effort to get the children fed, bathed, in pajamas, teeth brushed, and read to in that short hour and a half. It takes an even greater effort to turn that dinner into a family event.
And yet we do, at least once a week. We hurry home and roll up our sleeves. The girls set the table as best as they can before putting on their over-sized kitchen aprons to help me assemble the pizza – just cheese on one quarter, cheese and basil on another, chicken, cheese, and basil on the rest.
Knowing that children who have dinner with their parents do better in school and suffer from fewer eating disorders is not the impetus behind our weekly tradition. We do it because once our daughter called our family meals “family love dinner.” It’s her favorite meal, making worth the extra hassle on that one weekday.