When I was growing up, my family ate dinner together at an old wooden farm table. The nightly tradition was formal, in that we were expected to use manners and not sit on our feet, but mostly it was relaxed and without any extraneous rules. Certainly there were no assigned seats. Even so, for 20 years, my two older brothers, Van and Will, my parents and I sat at the same spots, as if they were given to us, around the table.

I sat next to Will (but still far enough away that he was once able to hurl a biscuit at me) and across from my mom, who was to the left of Van. Dad, when he was not on deployment, sat to my right, at the head of the table. Although this seating arrangement originated at the family dinner table, it became so comfortable that we still unknowingly fall into our usual spots, even when we are at a restaurant.

Because the dinner table was at the center of the kitchen, which was the hub of the house, we often used it for other tasks not related to mealtimes. I rolled out Play-Doh there, baked cookies in my Easy-Bake oven, did homework, made birthday cards for friends, wrapped presents and played board games. In doing so, my brothers and I over the years had accidentally carved a timeline of our childhoods into the soft wood of the table at each of our respective spots.

At my place you could see the word “COKE” dug into the grain because I hadn’t put enough paper underneath when I pretended to be a waitress taking orders. At Will’s place there were dented spirals made into flowers from his experiment with a Spirograph. All over the table, when the sunlight hit it just right, you could see jumbled words dug into the wood from where we had done our homework.

Now that my original family has grown by three spouses and four grandchildren, Mom replaced the old dinner table with a longer (but still old) farm table. It took awhile for Dustin to realize that no matter how many people show up at my parents’ house, Mom will fit them around the dinner table. You don’t sit in front of the television with your meal in your lap at Mom’s house. You don’t go out to eat that often either. You squeeze into your spot at the table, where there will be a place mat and silverware waiting for you.

When Mom upgraded her table, she gave the old one to me. Dad spent several hours sanding the soft wood, years of accidental carvings turning into sawdust and blowing into the wind, so that he could put a new coat of varnish on top. When he was finished, the table shone like it never had before. The wood was smooth and without any blemishes. Even my “COKE” was erased. It was like a fresh sheet of paper — an unmarked canvas — for my family of five to create our own dinnertime memories upon.

Except, I didn’t want my boys to mark up the “new” shiny table. “Get something to bear down on,” I told them hundreds of times a day as they sat down to draw or do homework. Eventually, however, the table began to show the etchings of our lives: the words of Ford’s thank-you note to a friend; numbers from Owen’s schoolwork; dots like acne scars where Lindell bangs his fork; the discolored circle where I set down a hot pan.

I’ve noticed that as the boys get older, they spend less time at the kitchen table with coloring books and toys, and a family dinnertime has become even more important. But the boys often are busy — too busy — with after-school sports and activities. Every night we have a different commitment to meet, a practice to get to, a meeting to attend. Last week, our schedules were so packed we didn’t sit down together once for dinner. So I pulled the plug on some activities and asked the boys to choose one sport for each season. I told them that our family will eat together at least three times a week, even at the sacrifice of after-school events.

Many people will disagree with me. There is much to learn and pack into a childhood, after all, and denying a child the opportunity to participate in several activities almost seems unfair.

But recently it occurred to me that there are worse things than asking your child to pick only one extracurricular commitment at a time. For instance, raising children to adulthood with a kitchen table that never receives a scratch or a dent, those tattoos of a family sitting together for a meal, and missing out on the irreplaceable memories that go with them.

Maine author and columnist Sarah Smiley’s writing is syndicated weekly to publications across the country. She and her husband, Dustin, live with their three sons in Bangor. Her book “I’m Just Saying ...” is available at bookstores. She may be reached at sarah@sarahsmiley.com.