In my family there were a few hard-and-fast traditions. We watched "Die Hard" every Christmas — and thus I was the only kid in the third grade who had a swear-word vocabulary as large as John McClane's. But despite what my off-color precocity might imply, we also clung hard to one traditional, family-friendly essential. Namely, we always ate dinner at the table, together as a family. (The exceptions were pizza night and when "Star Trek" was on — because, you know, priorities).
Fast forward 20 years and I have my own family. I'm lucky to be married to an amazing man with equally amazing children. But I can't help feeling frustrated that they don't share the same table tradition.