Last night at our first formal dinner of the year I sat with my freshwomen advisees and a lovely freshmen boy who joined us at the last minute. Between the heat and the exuberant presence of my twin four year-old daughters, I struggled to maintain the dignified mien of the professional woman I aspire to be.  All I could think about were my list of to do’s for the meal:

• Serve them (Frosh can’t serve because they don’t know how, so tonight it’s my responsibility to show them by example)
• Delight them (with thoughtful, inviting discussion—they’re too new and shy to do it themselves!)
• Comfort them (They look a bit terrified!  They’re away from home for the first time and this is supposed to replicate in some small way their family dinners at home.)
• Enlighten them (on the ins and outs of formal dinner, the unstated rules of engagement that make the endeavor one to enjoy)
• Feed them (this is mostly directed at my daughters, but I should make sure these students eat.  They’ve got homework to do and have been riding all afternoon.)

I imagine that from across the room I looked akin to Lucille Ball as she stuffed chocolates into her mouth, her pockets and down her shirt attempting to keep up with that endless conveyor belt, all the while smiling and pretending everything was fine.

Once I’d gotten the food, explained what they should do if they finish off a dish, served my daughters and myself, asked each student about her day and put my first bite of food in my mouth, my daughter Adeline loudly announced “MAAAAAAAAAAHMY, I need to go POOOOOOOOOOOOP!”

My eyebrows shot up and I immediately broke into preschool teacher voice (the sing-songy, overly genuine and enunciated speech I hate, but can’t seem to avoid). “Goodness, Addie. Thank you for expressing your needs so clearly, but that really isn’t appropriate talk for the table.”  Addie looked at me as if I’d lost what little mind she previously believed I had.  I then leaned in and said in my don’t-test-me-voice, “You’ll have to wait until after dinner.”

As I sat back and gave the students my best “From the mouths of babes” smile,  Elizabeth, the freshwoman sitting next to Addie, looked up at me with wide eyes and asked in a barely audible voice, “May I take her to the bathroom, Ms. Pidduck?”

And just like that, I’m reminded where I am—at Thacher, at our version of the family table, with Thacher students–kids who, even two days in, get it.  And the to-do’s magically become get-to’s.

As the meal finishes and the students get up to leave, the young man who’d joined us late approaches me with his hand out.  “Thank you for letting me join you, Ms Pidduck.  That was delightful.”

And I think, there really is no place quite like this one.