Regular family dinners offer more than food

Lori Borgman

Parents burn vast amounts of money, pavement and energy shuttling children from one activity to another in pursuit of raising successful kids. We have become like ants in plastic ant farms, constantly on the move. The only difference between the ants and us is that they scurry about on six spindly legs and we rely on mini-vans and SUVs.

What if there were something very simple, something that would not require an enrollment form, a new uniform, time in the car, or a registration fee, that you could start doing today to insure the success of your child?

Interested?

The answer is dinner with the family.

In recent years, the benefits of having dinner together as a family have been so thoroughly documented that the statistics can be, well, bloating. Allow me to present a few a la carte:

Teens who ate five or six meals a week with their families had slightly less than a 1 in 4 chance of smoking cigarettes, using marijuana, drinking alcohol, growing depressed or attempting suicide.

Children who ate with their families were not only less likely to end up in trouble, they also were more likely to have higher academic scores, confide in their parents and feel that their parents are proud of them.

Apparently, the only things dinner with the family can’t do for kids is give them good posture, straight teeth and keep them from using the annoying phrase “like totally.”

Still, even with such persuasive evidence, the Wall Street Journal reports that less than one-third of all children sit down to eat dinner with both parents on any given night. Numbers worsen if both parents are working and the family is Caucasian. As a side note, Latino families have the highest rate of sharing a meal.

Dinner together was a staple of my childhood, the same way it was for most other families on the block. At my house, we could count on dinner every night at 5:30 the same way we could count on our Catholic friends having fish on Fridays.

What’s more, nobody did take-out. As a kid, the only person I knew who did take-out was Doris Day in “With Six You Get Eggroll.”

When dinner was over, Mom and Dad often set the dishwasher in motion (my brother and me) and disappeared into the living room to finish their coffee. After the last plate was put away and the dishtowels hung to dry, we knew we would do it all over again the next night, and the night after that and the night after that.

The husband and I have not been as successful as my parents at doing dinner. We hit most of the time, especially when the kids were small, but not all the time.

When too many nights passed without dinner together and the husband could not seem to make it from the office to home, I shuttled the kids and dinner from home to his office. He got the meal as well as the message.

Dinner is imperative because it is the time when you talk, laugh, argue, pout, act like a goofball and cement as a family.

Dinner is where you put together the puzzle of the world and, sometimes, the puzzle of yourself.

In the midst of all the shuttling and driving and keeping crazy schedules to give our children the very best, isn’t it ironic that the real key to success is as close as the kitchen table?

Home remedy or silent conspiracy?

Lori Borgman

Most families have their own home-health-care remedies they employ before resorting to calling the doctor. Some rely on chicken soup and orange juice, while others turn to vaporizers and vitamins. Then again, others go directly to the emergency room for a hangnail.

My parents’ home cure-all was to gargle with warm salt water.

It didn’t matter what your symptoms were; the remedy was always the same.

Chest cold? Gargle with warm salt water.

Sore throat? Gargle with warm salt water.

Third eye growing out of your chin? Gargle with warm salt water.

It must have been an effective treatment, as the number of times we went to the doctor was so few as to be memorable.

Once as a teen, I had a cold for several weeks (and had been gargling with warm salt water, but only in a half-hearted manner, and sometimes completely omitting the salt), and was taken to see the doctor.

Although I felt rotten, a part of me felt good about having an illness that defied the powers of warm salt water. I knew it would be something rare and exotic with a hard to pronounce name that would leave people shaking their heads saying, “And to think she still managed to be secretary of the pep club.”

The doctor clicked his little flashlight on, shined it in my throat, clicked it off and said, “The best thing for you to do is gargle with warm salt water.”

My father smiled all the way home. Tell me that wasn’t a conspiracy.

In my sister-in-law’s family, the standard home remedy was: “What you need is some fresh air.”

She grew up with five brothers and two sisters, so sending a kid outside probably did as much for her mom and dad’s health and well being as it did for the kid.

My grandfather’s standby was, “Slap a Band-Aid on it.” This worked well for general cuts and bruises, but lost effectiveness for things like blurred vision and broken bones. Even Band-Aids have their limitations.

Many other families relied on the old “take an aspirin and go lie down.” That’s a tough one to use today as (a) you don’t give aspirin to kids, (b) you can’t just take anything. You have to decide if it’s a muscle ache that calls for ibuprofen or plain pain that calls for acetaminophen. Aspirin isn’t the cure-all it used to be.

I thought I had heard all the standards until the husband, who is not a doctor in real life and has never even played one on television, came up with a new remedy, which he believes will fix anything that ails you. Milk.

Headache: “When was the last time you drank any milk?”

Daughter calls home from college with question about housing contact: “Does it include milk?”

Alan Greenspan steps down as chairman of the Federal Reserve: “That’s what happens when you don’t drink milk.”

I was ready to dismiss his new cure-all, but I opened the paper and there was a story on the benefits of milk related to bone growth. I turned on the news and there was a segment on milk aiding weight loss. I turned on the radio and the health spotlight was about – you guessed it -- milk.

What are the chances? Two conspiracies in one lifetime.


Post Script

One year ago I was preparing to deliver a talk on the differences between the sexes at Wabash College, one of the few all-male colleges left in the country. I was invited by Ken Rudolph, a senior, who organized the lecture as part of “Man Week.” The V Monologues had been invited to campus, along with a speaker who opposed all-male colleges and testified as a witness in the case against VMI’s all-male student body.

Having known Ken for a while, I knew that “Man Week” was something not to be missed. Ken knew how to stir the pot. He had one of the most brilliant minds of any young man to pass through our front door. He was a sharp thinker with a keen sense of observation, a wicked wit and a soft heart.

Ken Rudolph died yesterday in a car accident in Washington, D.C. He will be forever missed. Rest in peace, Ken.Rudolph.

Jack Bauer puts us boring types to shame

Lori Borgman

I just finished watching an episode of “24” when the husband asked what I had going on for the week.

“You know I always feel rotten after ‘24’,” I said.

“Oh, feeling worthless again?”

“’Extremely. Like a total slacker.”

“24” is the television action-thriller featuring Counter Terrorism Unit agent Jack Bauer, who in only four television seasons and 96 hours has saved the world four times.

And what will I be doing tomorrow? I have a dental appointment. Big whoop.

Jack Bauer once survived a plane crash and pulled a chunk of a jetliner out of his thigh with his bare hands and didn't even scream.

Me? I let the world know when I need an ibuprofen for my carpal tunnel.

Jack Bauer once discovered that a cell phone was actually a bomb and hurled it out a window to save the president.

My cell phone rarely rings, let alone explodes.

Jack Bauer never sleeps, never blinks and has been killed twice. Even then he only stayed dead for an hour.

I need a minimum six hours of sleep a night or I can’t form complete sentences the next day.

Who in their right mind would want to talk about their life after watching Jack Bauer live his?

The entire CTU staff is equally spellbinding. They are all of child-bearing age but you never see them bustling out of the office to attend a soccer game or a fielding phone call from a kid asking if there are any more Oreos.

They are constantly viewing grainy surveillance videos, slamming suspects up against walls, pounding on their desks and yelling, “Get me the president!” Oh yeah, and they all type 250 words a minute on the computer.

I've yet to see a one of them eating a tuna sandwich at their computer. This doesn't mean it hasn't happened. What it really means is that “24” is so intense, I watch most of it with my eyes closed.

Just once I would like to see that touch of realism where a CTU agent spills a Diet Coke on a desk. Or does a Google search. Instead, they flash from computer screen to computer screen, effortlessly accessing bank statements and tracking Ken Lay-size deposits of suspected enemies.

Me? I don’t have a clue how to crack into someone’s bank account. I suppose you'd need some basic info like name, address and phone number to get started. Sure, I could search somebody on switchboard.com, but I'd get hung up on the site asking me if I wanted to use my credit card to pay $14.95 to get the unlisted phone number. I don't know, $12.95 maybe, but $14.95 sounds a little pricey.

That would never happen to Jack Bauer. The computer would instantly spit out the unlisted phone number in order to avoid being shot.

Sure, by comparison my life is dull. But in all fairness, I am distracted by the basics that never seem to dog Jack Bauer. Things like eating and sleeping. How does Jack Bauer get clean socks? Anybody? Does he never go to an ATM? When does he get his haircut? Does the man ever check his credit card statement?

Silly me. That must be what he does during the commercial breaks.

Lori is the author of "All Stressed Up and No Where To Go," available at bookstores and on-line. A mole at CTU said it is first on Jack's list of "books to read" right after he finds the nerve gas.

Irreconcilable differences

Lori Borgman

The husband was reading an article that said 69 percent of all differences in a marriage are never resolved.

“Do you believe that?” he asked.

I looked at him and solemnly said, “I do.”

John Gottman, a relationship researcher and an affiliate of Smart Marriages, a sharp and enthusiastic coalition working to strengthen marriage, has found that most couples have irreconcilable differences that are never reconciled.

Nice to know you have company, isn’t it?

The husband and I have proven this theory to be true, in that we do not argue about a lot of things; we simply argue about the same things over and over.

I call them our perennials. Since we have had ample practice at the same arguments, we have been able to shorten many of them to 20 words or less.

For example, the husband does not appreciate the fact that I was born cold-blooded, just as I do not appreciate the fact that he has a circulatory system unable to deliver a single drop of blood to any of his extremities.

When we are in the car and he has turned the heat to the hottest setting with the fan blowing on high, I no longer inform him that I am getting hot and nauseated and believe this is inconsiderate and insensitive on his part.

That would just stir up one of those dreaded relationship talks that ends with neither of us remembering how it started in the first place. Now, I simply say, “Honey, the flames of Hell.” (five words)

He knows what this means and moves the knob ever so slightly away from the red and toward the blue. “Now?” he says. (one word.)

If it is still too hot, I say, “Bonfires of Hell.” (three words.) He moves the knob further toward the blue and I am once again able to breathe, although he now has small icicles hanging from his nose.

When I am not looking, he slides the lever back to the high heat setting, whereupon I roll down my window and either the exchange begins anew, or we have reached our destination.

One of our other perennials is about being on time. I believe punctuality means arriving at least 10 minutes before an event starts. He believes arriving before an event starts is a waste of time.

Instead of arguing, I now move the start time of events up by one hour. He is satisfied, thinking he successfully slid in at the last second, and I am happy in that it has been two years since we raced a bride down the aisle.

Our third perennial involves holiday travel. He enjoys burning 2,000 miles of interstate to visit all members of both families, while it makes me weary. Instead of prolonging this argument, we now have it down to a bare-bones banter:
“Four states, seven days,” he says.

“Three states, five days and potty breaks every 90 minutes of travel,” I say.

“Three states, six days, potty breaks every two hours,” he counters.

That discussion used to take an entire evening, but now we can have a holiday travel plan formed in under two minutes, with only occasional rolling of the eyes on my part.

It would probably behoove every couple to pinpoint their perennials and whittle them down to a 15-word-or-less exchange. This allows couples to argue more quickly and efficiently, hence allowing more time for other things, like getting along.

Life in a parallel parking universe

Lori Borgman

Toyota and Lexus are both rolling out cars that can parallel park themselves automatically. My guess is that the target demographic would be 16-year-olds about to take their driver’s test.

The Toyota feature is called the Intelligent Parking Assist system: The driver pushes a few buttons on a dashboard computer screen that confirms a visual image as to where he or she wants to park. The driver keeps one foot on the brake pedal for an occasional tap, and the car steers itself into place.

Personally, I have no need for such technology. Friends and family constantly express amazement at my parallel parking abilities.

They say things like, “Amazing! And after only 25 tries!”

Last week I parallel parked Downtown and my passenger said, “Amazing! I’ve never seen anyone able to scrape tires on a curb like that without so much as flinching.”

As you can tell, I have this parallel parking thing down pat.

My real dream is to one day be able to parallel park a car like they do in the movies. Barrel down the street at 80 mph, slam on the brakes, do a screaming hairpin U-turn, and swing the car perfectly into place. Of course, that is a distant dream, so now I will settle for getting the car between two other cars and not being so close to the curb that I have to roll down the window and pull myself out by grabbing the parking meter.

When our kids learned how to parallel park, the driver education instructor tested their skill by having them maneuver between orange plastic cones. The kids often said this was the most stressful part of the class."

“You kids today have it so easy,” I told them. “When we took the test, they didn’t have plastic cones, so they used real people. If you tapped one of them, you not only failed the test, you had to pay their medical bills and take their place as a marker.”

This new sensor technology of confirming a visual image on a computer and then punching a few buttons to create a reality is very enticing.

In addition to being able to call up an image of a car parallel parking, I’d also like to be able to call up an image of a clean car. This, in turn, would activate an automatic water system to suds and spray the outside of the vehicle, while a central vacuum system crawls out of breakaway door panels and suctions up mud, dirt and dead leaves scattered about the floor.

I’d also like a sensor system that could give me a calorie and fat gram count on the fast-food meal I was about to order at the drive-through. Of further benefit would be the system triggering a sizable electrical jolt beneath the seat after I saw the calorie and fat count and ordered the meal anyway.

But perhaps the sensor technology could best be used to deter motorists who insist on nuzzling three inches from your rear bumper. The sensor would detect the tailgater and then trigger a reader board in your back window that would flash the message of your choice. “Police are on the way,” or “Oil slick ahead!”

Despite the many possibilities, I am hoping the sensor technology turns out to be nothing more than a flickering flare on the side of the road. It breaks my heart to think of all those young people being deprived the joy of parallel parking.

Lori's new humor book ," All Stressed Up and No Place to Go," is now available wherever books are sold.