Rhea Schmiedlin
Under The Kiddie Table
As an only child for the first nineteen years of my life, I became quite accustomed to being hauled about by my mother. The two of us were inseparable and my mother treated me a bit more like a peer than a child. At meal times, I was never limited to the kiddie menu and I would always choose curried zucchini soup over chicken fingers if given the choice. My mother always gave me a choice, and I always ate at the table with the adults… except when I ate at extended family gatherings. It was at these early social events (where I did nothing but sulk, alone, at the kiddie table) that I realized that sharing food creates one of the biggest senses of belonging there is.
At birth, two gifts were bestowed upon me: the gift of being an only child and the gift of being ten years younger than the cousin closest in age to me. When my family got together, I could never find a place amongst shoulder-padded adults or the big-haired sub-adults. I was usually the cute little thing everyone smiled at initially and left alone at the kiddie table during mealtime when they wanted to discuss important matters such as Stefanie’s new boyfriend or the cost of Beth’s braces.
Looking back on it, everyone made such a big deal about the kiddie table. It was only an ugly green card table set up just outside the dining room with one lonely chair for me to sit in. As soon as the dogs were fed and there was talk of the meal being ready, aunts, uncles, cousins and grandparents would find me and say things like, “aren’t you excited about sitting at your own special table?” At first, since everyone was telling me such great things about the kiddie table, I did feel special and lucky for being chosen to sit there for dinner. Then, when the food had been served and I found myself alone and face-to-face with a grilled cheese sandwich while everyone else got to enjoy a moist and tender lemon pepper chicken and fresh green salad with homemade vinaigrette dressing, I felt entirely insulted. My family didn’t want me to eat with them and they didn’t even respect my four years on this planet enough to let me eat share their food!
During one dinner, as I was letting go of the pretense of the kiddie table being “my special place,” I looked around me and noticed something I hadn’t paid much attention to before; I was surrounded by dogs. To every family gathering, each aunt and uncle usually brought his or her family dogs along and apparently kept them behind the same half of the Dutch door I was kept behind during meals. This discovery made sense to me instantly; after all, the dogs and I all loved to play outside and they were always up for playing when none of the adults seemed interested. I felt an immediate kinship with my six new comrades and I decided that, after that particular family gathering, I would never let the detestable kiddie table bother me again. >
Although I wasn’t immediately sure of my plan, I went home from that dinner stuffed with ideas of how I was no longer going to feel alone in the midst of my extended family. I spent increasing amounts of time in the fort I made behind the couch in efforts to formulate my plans before the next family get-together. I didn’t let anyone in on my secrets- except my dog, Tippy, and my cat, Smokey- and I often requested to eat my snacks in my fort to maximize the time I spent working on my plan, but I was getting frustrated. Then, one day Smokey refused to come out from inside my dad’s recliner for anything but Pounce cat treats.
At the time, I felt as though Smokey’s stunt in the recliner was his way of sharing his genius idea with me. Although my mom tried many different methods of cat retrieval, she eventually found nothing to be more effective than Smokey’s favorite treats. I was put in charge of the salmon-flavored tidbits and as I shook the cardboard canister that contained the crunchy cat cookies, Smokey ran out from inside the oversized chair and started munching. My mom took the hand-held Dirt Devil vacuum to the big, brown recliner and began to rid it of gray fur while I secretly indulged in Pounce cat treats with Smokey, my pseudo sibling.
After my first experience with pet food, I realized that the easiest way to fit in with the dogs at the family gatherings was to share food with them. Since the day that Smokey took up residence in the recliner, I had secretly been gathering cat treats and dog kibble in a rather large vinyl bag from my doctor play set. I saw no problems with taking my bag to the next family gathering and sharing a few treats with my furry cousins at Christmastime.
When the day of the family dinner rolled around, I packed up the plastic purse and insisted on carrying the unusually heavy bag (which all of the dogs found to be very intriguing) to my grandparents’ house. After receiving the usual pats on the head and hearing the regular lies about the glamour of the kiddie table, I sat down by myself to a meal served on a paper plate. I was sure none of my cousins had to eat from paper plates, but I didn’t let that bother me too much; I was on a mission.
I listened for the usual laughter and clinking of glasses before executing my plan. When I was confident that all of my human family members were unaware of my existence, I started feeding my paper plateful of food to the dogs. Then, I sat on the floor underneath “my special table” and opened my bag. A volcano of kibble exploded from the white bag and the red cross on its side shrank as the pouch emptied. Golden Retriever, Black Lab, English Bulldog, German Shepherd, Pointer and mutts and I all enjoyed a feast of Pounce cat treats and Science Diet’s lamb and rice dog food. For the first time in my 4 years of lonely family dinners, with my cheeks full of oily, crumbly kibble, I felt like I belonged.
My cousin Stefanie was, miraculously, the only family member on two legs to find out about my little party under the kiddie table and her discovery was only because she just happened to walk past to go to the bathroom as the dogs and I were finishing. She didn’t laugh at me when I broke down and told her all about my plan and why I did it; instead, she brought two plates of dinner (one for her and one for me) past the half of the Dutch door that the dogs and I had been placed behind, pulled up a chair, and sat with me at that flimsy little card table my family always set up for my meals. I don’t think Stef ever told my family about my doctor’s bag full of pet food, and I certainly never told my family that the Milkbone brand dog biscuits were her favorite.
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