The August edition of Psychology Today has an article titled: "Four secrets to a happy family." I'm a sucker for magazine headlines, especially those that promise a straight shot to bliss.
I wanted the "four secrets" in this article to be clear and easy. Stuff like:
* Floss your teeth counterclockwise.
* Thaw hamburger using only Fahrenheit degrees, not Celsius degrees.
* Do not operate an iPad during a midair collision.
* Never walk under a stepladder.
These things I can do.
But these self-help pieces always dissolve into impossible-to-measure advice. The Psychology Today piece, for example, calls on families to be "ritualistic" but "flexible." (I'll get right on that -- or not.)
One concrete suggestion for families from the article: Eat together. That's something we actually attempt at our house.
When I was a kid, eating together was easy. When old-school Southern parents called you to dinner, you had two choices: You could sit down immediately, or you could report to basic training.
At my house, when my wife and I suggest that we all eat together, our two sons, ages 8 and 3, go into full sulk.
My 8-year-old's body goes completely limp. His head falls back and his jaw drops open. His head lolls from side to side, until he finally plops down at the kitchen table. He immediately starts to pick at his burger with the tip of his fork as if we were forcing him to eat a hockey puck made out of plutonium.
Taking a cue from his big brother, our 3-year-old announces: "I'm not hungry." This is from a kid who would stick his tongue under a refrigerator to get to a mini-marshmallow.
If I exert my authority and order both boys to the table, any chance of happy talk has gone out the window.
"So, somebody tell me about your day," I'll say, jovially. (Silence.)
"Did you know eating together leads to happy families?" I say. (More silence.) "And that children who eat with their families score higher on standardized tests?"
"Can I be excused," says my 8-year-old son, who is itching to get back to the monster-truck competition on TV.
"Can I be excused," says my 3-year-old son, because mimicking your other brother is what you do when you're 3.
"Fine," I say, surrendering. "Do as you like."
In a minute, my older son is parked in front of the television. My 3-year-old is playing with his toy truck. And my wife and I are exchanging small talk.
Oddly, everybody seems happy.
Wait, wasn't that the point?