Let's just put it all on the table

You might think just because I have a career, a happy family and blue eyes that I've got it all. You might think that I have no idea what it feels like to be scared, frustrated or irregular.

You would be wrong.

Like everyone else, I struggle with aging and everything that comes with it. I understand what it's like to deal with challenging children while addressing health issues and the indignities of dry skin. The other day, after working all day and falling over during yoga class, not to mention feeling the pressure of an entire house that needs attention, I laid my head on the kitchen table and cried.

As tears fell on the cherry wood surface, I thought about this setting. Just a few nights earlier, cherished friends had traveled from all over the country to celebrate Husband's 42nd birthday. The same table absorbing my sorrow had recently absorbed the condensation of about 12 different beverages while old friends told six hours' worth of stories and gave birth to a few more.

So I wiped my face, avoided a few phone calls, and thought about my kitchen table and all the ways it has participated in my personal history.

At that table, after hauling it from Tampa to Boston as a newly married couple, we built friendships over microbrews and fine wine - years before we all went crazy and stopped using birth control.

At that table, we entertained intimate crowds who didn't mind vegetarian meals that almost always needed salt.

At that table, Husband and I discussed the idea of becoming parents.

At that table, our boys were brought into the Jewish community. Husband paid closer attention to their bris than Wimbledon, while I stared out the window wishing I were in Aruba.

At that table, after hauling it from Boston back to Tampa, I wondered how the heck we wound up in Wesley Chapel.

At that table, Husband and I taught our children to appreciate vegetables, hard work and ending every political conversation with a joke about Reagan.

At that table, I talked with doctors and nutritionists, who would scare me into taking better care of myself.

At that table, I contemplated out-of-control chin hairs and what to do with the rest of my life.

At that table, we bless our children every Friday night and pray that they bring honor to themselves, their family and flag football fans.

At that table, we listened to family members share their souls, honored to be a part of their legacy, despite the propensity toward varicose veins.

At that table, I watch the love of my life pretend to like my cooking and ask him, over and over again, for the love of God, to please chew with his mouth closed.

At that table, I have written countless posts and newspaper columns. I've answered hate mail, love letters and expressed regret over friending my parents on Facebook.

At that table, my children practice manners, math problems and listening skills.

Through good times and bad, that table is where I gather with loved ones and try to figure it all out. Other times, I sit alone.

As I trace the cracks and stains and ink marks and think about the years of challenges that lie ahead, I realize that as I get older, my happy family and terrific friends count for a lot.

And where did I realize that I should focus on what I have instead of what I don't?

That kitchen table, of course.

Still participating in my history; it's sturdier than I realized.

Who wants dinner?