A quiet Chicago night in a hotel lobby while my girls sing “Sweet Caroline” next door

I’m sitting by myself in the entry lounge of a downtown Chicago hotel. The atmosphere is restrained, with only a valet behind his desk sharing the space with me. I’m not sure if he can see me; in any case, he pays me no mind.

Music from the bar one flight up filters down—disco, soul, a bit of ’80s pop. The music is blotted out whenever the sliding front door opens and the wind, followed by overcoated, chattering guests, howls its way into the foyer.

Tonight I am a designated driver. Barb and our two oldest granddaughters are at the theater next door, enjoying A Beautiful Noise, a musical that I have seen twice before and have no desire to see a third time. Barb has been eager to see it again and to experience it through the girl’s eyes.

Earlier this evening, traffic flowed well on our drive into the city. We arrived downtown with time to spare, parked at a garage near the theater, and walked to JoJo’s Shake Bar, a fun and funky diner across the river. Burgers, sandwiches, salads, and milkshakes—big, creative milkshakes— left us all sated and sugar-buzzed for our trek back to the theater district.

So now the girls are enjoying the show while I watch the minutes pass by in the hotel lobby. I begin to read the novel I have brought with me, the newest Dan Brown thriller. I can already picture Tom Hanks playing Robert Langdon once again in the inevitable Netflix adaptation.

I’d been resourceful enough to grab my earpods when we left the house earlier. So after a while, I use my phone to access our home network and watch today’s episode of Jeopardy! The sound is a bit out of sync, the contestants’ responses a bit delayed, but the current champ continues his streak, crushing two more victims and moving over $300,000 in winnings.

Barb texts me at intermission. She tells me everyone is enjoying the show, though the audience is subdued. Unusual for this show—usually the musical numbers have people dancing in the aisles. I guess Tuesday nights don’t bring out the Neil Diamond party animals.

I’ve got about an hour before the show is over, so I stroll a bit through the hotel. No one questions me as I walk through several lounges in search of a Diet Coke. I finally find a counter selling soda and snacks at minibar prices. But $5 for the three hours of shelter while I wait for the girls is a pretty low price to pay.

I return to the front lounge. The valet and a custodian are discussing their NFL favorites and what prop bets to make for the coming weekend’s games. A woman in skin-tight leather pants consults her phone before heading upstairs to an assignation. And through the window of the hotel, I see the first people leaving the theater.

Just like that, my quiet little night as a chauffeur-in-waiting ends. The best part? Seeing my girls spill out of the theater, thrilled and chattering as they walk toward me for our late-night drive back home.

3 Generations of my family couldn’t disagree more.

When Erin White confessed in her New York Times essay that she “made dinner for my family because I wanted to and because the world told me I had to — and then, three years ago, I just stopped,” I nearly dropped my fork. Stopped? Dinner? The family dinner? The sacred nightly ritual that has kept generations fed, sane, and mildly annoyed but still talking to one another?

White goes on to reassure readers that “your family will remain connected and whole; your kids will still grow up to be well-adjusted humans” even if you skip the nightly sit-down. That may be true in her house, but I will defend every family dinner we have ever had.

I grew up with family dinners as a non-negotiable part of the day. Every evening, no matter what chaos life had thrown at us, we gathered around the table. The television was never on. I may have missed out on hearing about the day’s events from Walter Cronkite, Chet Huntley, or David Brinkley, but it gave me time with Mom, Dad, and my sister Linda. We were our own nightly news.

When Barb and I started our own family, we didn’t even have to discuss it. Family dinner was just what we did. And I kept my rule: no television. Vanna White was turned on after we were done. Instead of Wheel of Fortune, we talked, we laughed, we argued, and we invited friends over for Taco Tuesday. No one got a free pass; no one wanted one.

In her opinion piece, White worries that the pressure to produce nightly family dinners is overblown, writing, “The messaging on family dinner is intense! Family dinner will make your children smart! It will keep your children off drugs!” Sure, that’s a lot to ask of one Chicken Kiev. But she’s missing the point. It’s not about the meal’s miracle powers. It’s about the moment.

Dinner was our family’s daily reboot before rebooting was a thing. It might not have lasted more than twenty minutes, but it was where the kids learned to tell stories, disagree politely (mostly), and learn our family history and our ethos. Sometimes it ended in laughter, sometimes in frustration. But it always ended together and resumed the next day.

Did it matter? Here’s the kicker: our grown kids now do the same thing. Both our son and daughter have carried on the tradition with their own families. Dinner together. No screens, no exceptions. I take that as proof that something about those dinners stuck, maybe even meant something.

So, with all due respect to Erin White, I’m for keeping the family dinner alive and well. It’s not a performance. It’s not a punishment. It’s just the one time of day we all show up, sit down, and actually see each other.

And if sometimes the chicken’s a little dry or the mood a little dark, that’s family. And Vanna White is still hanging around.

Jet lag, creativity, and what to do with one extra hour

Spring ahead, fall back.

“It’s great,” they say. “Get an extra hour of sleep.”

That sounds like it would be invaluable to me, my body still grappling with 17 hours of jet lag that won’t let go. I crave an extra hour of deep REM sleep.

But I know that if I stay in bed, instead of softly snoring while dreaming of sushi and samurai, I will be tossing and turning, tugging at bed covers, disturbing Barb’s sleep, and annoying the kitten sleeping at her side.

There are so many things I can do with that extra hour. I can continue the revisions to my latest play, newly inspired by the informative comments at last week’s online reading. I could complete the blog about family dinners that I started yesterday, sitting half-completed on my computer monitor.

I could use the hour relocating the patio furniture to the garage—though that would be best put off till later in the morning, just before the Bears game. On a more relaxing note, the extra time could be spent trying to move from “Expert” level to “Genius” on today’s Spelling Bee, or tackling Sports Connections, freshly inspired by last night’s Dodgers World Series victory.

And I know Cooper will be rising soon, unaware of any time change, eager to get out of his crate and have his first morning walk. I can’t keep the big fellow waiting.

The sun is rising now, and I’ve chosen to use these last few spare minutes to write this short post and wish you all a happy extra hour. Use it wisely, use it well, and be refreshed for the day ahead.