A psychologist once asked me if our family sits down for dinner together every night.

I just looked at him in disbelief, thinking that I no longer needed to inquire if he had any children himself.

I told him that, yes, we do sit down for dinner together, whenever my son doesn't have baseball practice, or a baseball game, or soccer practice, or a massive homework project that he was supposed to finish yesterday.

That's about once or twice a year. And we would sit down for dinner together then, if it weren't for the fact that, on those nights, my daughter usually has soccer practice or choir rehearsal or confirmation class or a dance recital or a massive homework project that she was supposed to finish yesterday.

Even with all these obstacles, I do try to put a home-cooked dinner on the table, which my children appreciate.

They show their appreciation with such gusto, that dinner is typically consumed in two nanoseconds, after which the kids then ask if they can be excused to do their homework, which is code for "go to their rooms and call their friends until bedtime."

Sometimes, I lose my temper and demand that everyone sit at the table like ladies and gentlemen and have a civilized conversation that doesn't involve bickering over who took whose acne cream and hid it.

Then, I sit and calmly eat, while two children stare at me, silent and accusing. They keep staring. I keep eating.

I ask them questions about their day, during which I elicit the information that nothing happened and no one said anything of note.

I point out that at Joseph Kennedy's dinner table, the late President John Kennedy and his many distinguished siblings were expected to have interesting tidbits to enliven the conversation.

They keep staring at me. They know from experience that eventually this will wear me down, even more than whining or arguing.

Then, they start staring at their crotches and moving their hands, which I know means they're not-so-secretly texting under the table. Obviously, they haven't lost the use of the English language, only with us.

Usually, at this point, I'm just so aggravated, I tell them they're excused. They leap up joyfully, thrilled to be relieved from the burden of sitting with the family at the table, thank me for dinner and disappear.

I've never wanted to become a Mormon, but sometimes I do reflect on their custom of Family Home Evening, which is one night set aside each week when the entire family gathers and does something together. In parts of Utah, sports practices and events aren't scheduled on this evening. And movie theaters even have special rates.

I tried doing this on Sunday nights, but then coaches who couldn't grasp the concept of family time wouldn't let us be.

Someday, when I'm old and live with my kids, I'm going to try to stare them down. Let's see how they like it.

Marla Jo Fisher was a workaholic before she adopted two foster kids several years ago. Now she juggles work and single parenting, while being exhorted from everywhere to be thinner, smarter, sexier, healthier, more frugal, a better mom, better dressed and a tidier housekeeper. Contact her at mfisher@ocregister.com. Follow her on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/FrumpyMiddleagedMom and on Twitter @FrumpyMom.

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