Sunday, I broke down and did something I swore I never would: I bought TV trays.

I admitted to myself, finally, that I watch TV while I eat. Not always, mind you. But sometimes. And sometimes ... with my son.

Yes, I know, dinner time with my son should be a time of conversation, bonding and all that. But with just two of us, frankly, sometimes the conversation quickly runs dry. Our "bonding" conversations like as not take place in the car or while we're walking the dog, rarely over the dinner table. But perhaps the volume of the TV has something to do with that.

Whatever, as long as he agrees to watch "Animal Planet," I'll often concede on TV-with-dinner.

For years, I've denied it was an issue, or, some might say, a problem. So instead of buying and using TV trays, we balanced plates and glasses on the couch seats, on the arms, on the pillows - anywhere but on a solid surface. I placed wine and milk glasses on the floor between bites.

Sometimes, as you might imagine, food slipped off plates. Wine spilled. Ice cream overflowed the bowl and melted. The cushions took a beating. Thank God, they're red, a color that can take a licking and still look surprisingly festive and clean. Time and again, it shrugs off milk, beer, butter, fried chicken and vino stains, and essentially says, "Party on!" It is ever-ready to host another dinner party on its happy red countenance.

The carpet is not so hospitable. It's far less forgiving of social gatherings, I-can-party-just-fine-by-myself-damnit nights, muddy animal paws or boy children. But hey, that's what stain removers are for. Furthermore, we're renting. The carpet can go to hell. The couch is ours forever.

And just why the hell do they put white carpet in an apartment anyway? To guarantee forfeiture of the security deposit?

Non-sequiter; my apologies.

I also can justify the purchase of TV trays because they disappear neatly when sandwiched between the back of the couch and the wall. One moment, they're here - folded open, damn near spread-eagled in the living room, obscene, tangible evidence of our American lifestyle at its most shameful. The next, they've vanished, resting serenely behind the couch, where even the rudest guest will never think to look.

In our house, they shall serve more than just the occasional dining need. In order to be trendy, I purchased a few years ago a metal table with rough, rocky tiles. It's beautiful. It's stylish. It's impractical. My son cannot do homework on its uneven surface. I cannot write even so much as my signature without knowing the future reader will suspect I was thoroughly smashed at the time - or that I am very, very old.

The other night, I not only ate - alone - at the TV tray, I sat down afterward and paid bills. The writing surface was smooth. My handwriting appeared eloquent. The sit-coms were funnier than I remembered. Paying bills suddenly seemed fun, very nearly artistic! I did so with maniacal glee, paying every single one in my stack, realizing I'd gone too far only when I saw checks made out to "Will & Grace," and "Seinfeld."

Robby has not yet "met" the TV trays. I am disgusted to realize that I consider this a treat for him, that I know he will love them, and be amazed that I spent my good money on such things.

I know this is twisted and wrong. I also know both of us desperately need to interact more with our fellow human beings.

Thusly, I plan to change the names of these instruments of evil. When he arrives Thursday evening, I plan to thoroughly buffalo him. I will introduce them not as TV trays, but as Portable Academic Workstations. Only when homework is complete, I will instruct, can they be called into service for their secondary purpose, as Nutritional Support Systems.