Sunday Traditions, Healing, and Home
Growing up in a very Italian Catholic household came with a lot of love, strong traditions, and—if we’re being honest—a fair share of trauma. Over the years, we’ve learned to move forward. We’ve learned to forgive, sometimes not just once, but again and again—at least once a week, every Sunday, when we gather around the table.
Every Sunday of every month, our family takes turns hosting dinner. It’s loud, it’s chaotic, and it’s ours. Most weeks, it’s full of laughter and stories, and on occasion, it gets messy—someone drinks too much, or one of the older kids is in a mood—but eight times out of ten, it’s beautiful. It’s family.
This weekend, we’re hosting the big family get-together in our new home. We’re not even fully unpacked yet, but it already feels like ours. My husband and I recently upgraded from a cramped duplex with two bedrooms to a four-bedroom home. It still needs some work, but it’s beautiful, and we’re so proud of it. I’m sure my aunt will have something to say about our Christmas decorations being out already—but our kids still believe in the magic, and today, that’s what it’s all about. I’m also bracing for the comments about the boxes still stacked in the garage or the kitchen not being “organized” yet, but the truth is, I haven’t quite figured out my vision for it yet—and that’s okay.
The food will be flowing all day. There will be football and music, laughter, drinks, and kids running everywhere. It’ll be loud and messy and chaotic—and I honestly can’t wait. I live for these weekends. I’ve planned everything down to the smallest detail. My mom will likely be the first one to arrive—probably by 9 a.m., even though I said “anytime after 1” to let the baby nap. She’ll come early to help, as always, making sure everything runs smoothly.
The sauce will go on the stove after breakfast, the fire will be going, and I’ll start frying up chicken cutlets around two for the chicken parmesan. My husband will handle his side of things—his appetizers and bar snacks—and my sister-in-law will bring dessert, because she’s the professional baker in the family (and, thankfully, I can’t bake to save my life).
After dinner, the men will kick us women out for a walk while they clean up, and we’ll end the night sitting around the fire, just being together before everyone heads home to prepare for another week.
When I think about it, I’m proud of how far we’ve come. My generation carried the traditions, but we also broke the cycle. The abuse, the silence, the pretending—it ended with us. Our children don’t have to recover from their childhoods the way we did. They get to simply be kids. That’s our greatest accomplishment.
And I hope, when they’re grown, they keep Sunday dinner alive—the noise, the chaos, the love—because that’s what family is.
Every Sunday of every month, our family takes turns hosting dinner. It’s loud, it’s chaotic, and it’s ours. Most weeks, it’s full of laughter and stories, and on occasion, it gets messy—someone drinks too much, or one of the older kids is in a mood—but eight times out of ten, it’s beautiful. It’s family.
This weekend, we’re hosting the big family get-together in our new home. We’re not even fully unpacked yet, but it already feels like ours. My husband and I recently upgraded from a cramped duplex with two bedrooms to a four-bedroom home. It still needs some work, but it’s beautiful, and we’re so proud of it. I’m sure my aunt will have something to say about our Christmas decorations being out already—but our kids still believe in the magic, and today, that’s what it’s all about. I’m also bracing for the comments about the boxes still stacked in the garage or the kitchen not being “organized” yet, but the truth is, I haven’t quite figured out my vision for it yet—and that’s okay.
The food will be flowing all day. There will be football and music, laughter, drinks, and kids running everywhere. It’ll be loud and messy and chaotic—and I honestly can’t wait. I live for these weekends. I’ve planned everything down to the smallest detail. My mom will likely be the first one to arrive—probably by 9 a.m., even though I said “anytime after 1” to let the baby nap. She’ll come early to help, as always, making sure everything runs smoothly.
The sauce will go on the stove after breakfast, the fire will be going, and I’ll start frying up chicken cutlets around two for the chicken parmesan. My husband will handle his side of things—his appetizers and bar snacks—and my sister-in-law will bring dessert, because she’s the professional baker in the family (and, thankfully, I can’t bake to save my life).
After dinner, the men will kick us women out for a walk while they clean up, and we’ll end the night sitting around the fire, just being together before everyone heads home to prepare for another week.
When I think about it, I’m proud of how far we’ve come. My generation carried the traditions, but we also broke the cycle. The abuse, the silence, the pretending—it ended with us. Our children don’t have to recover from their childhoods the way we did. They get to simply be kids. That’s our greatest accomplishment.
And I hope, when they’re grown, they keep Sunday dinner alive—the noise, the chaos, the love—because that’s what family is.
22-25, FNew
