Please Stop Breathing... On Me.

If there is anything I care about in this world, it is good oral hygiene. I am a tooth-brushing fanatic who loves to floss and swish mouthwash. If my teeth get ever so yellow I experience a melt down, drive to CVS, and proceed to whiten my teeth for the next 14 days until they are unnaturally white and possibly fluorescent. For some, these kinds of obsessions result from a traumatic tooth experience as a child, but for me, it's just a neuroses that I cannot shake. I think I have always been like this - at least I cannot remember NOT being like this. My dentist even goes so far as to tell me to brush my teeth less. Yes, it is that bad. I suppose it could be worse...

The Table: A Lesson in Patience

Growing up, my brothers and I sat at the dinner table every night with my parents. This was not a choice it was a rule that was only broken on the very rare occasion that we had friends sleeping over or lots of family over for a holiday (and in the case of holiday parties we were still expected to sit at a table, just in another room...)

Now, as a twenty-something wife and "someday mother," I have come to appreciate the kitchen table and understand why this place was so important to my parents. In this world of non stop electronic humming - from phones, computers, TVs and video games - the table is the last place in the house where a family of two (or ten) can sit, talk, relax and do all of this while actually looking at each other (I didn't make this up, check out this post on the Integrated Mother). This rudimentary piece of furniture has the potential to rebuild the grounds for communication, love and family. It is a tool that no family should be without and all families should gather at at least once a day, if only for a cup of coffee.

So why on earth would I consider turning the table into my own personal bonfire?