Unscripted

Every Sunday afternoon our family tries to be like Tom Selleck’s family in the television series Blue Bloods. We gather around my dining room table after Sunday church services and break bread. Of course, our family is only three generations not four. (Unless you factor in the ghosts—our dining room table belonged to both my grandmother and mother—in which case we trump the Reagan family as there are, theoretically, five generations sitting at our dinner table.) Our table does not seat as many as the Reagans, even if you count the high chairs, although we do have a table leaf or two reserved should we be blessed with more grandchildren. And our family business is not law enforcement but education. But because I am a romantic, I like to imagine we are a picture-perfect family just like the Reagans bonding over Sunday dinner.

Like, the Reagans, we too are a praying family. Scott, my husband, presides at the table, much like Frank Reagan, and each Sunday he asks one of us to say grace. Last Sunday, three-and-a-half-year old Adella arrived early at the table and tried to circumvent tradition. Anxious to get on with dinner—Aunt Justine had made kid friendly pasta and meatballs—Adella announced her intentions to say the prayer.

Scott is not one to easily cede his control as patriarch. So he looked at Adella, after everyone was seated, and asked, “Would you like to give the prayer, Adella?”

“Yes,” she replied immediately and buried her head into her arms that were folded on the table and started.

There was a muffled “Heavenly Father.” Then “Grateful day,” and “Grateful food.” Then a phrase that ended with “Grandma.”

I smiled. Adella was praying independently. Usually she prayed by repeating whatever words her parents whispered in her ear. Today she prayed unprompted. Although she was repeating phrases she might have learned from her parents, she clearly chose what to pray by herself. There was also a hint of smugness in my smile—I was the first family member for whom she prayed.

Suddenly she sat up. With her folded arms still covering her closed eyes and with great vigor she proclaimed. “Mom is happy. So happy.”

Then she added triumphantly, “So happy I peed in the potty.”

And there it was. The unbridled enthusiasm of a child sharing her triumph with the Almighty. I closed my lips tightly, trying to stifle a snicker. I raised my bowed head and opened my eyes in order to peer out at my children. Nathan’s hand was over his mouth trying to contain his laughter. Chrissy was hunched over the table shaking as she too held in her laughter. Justine and Christian were also doing their best not to disrupt the prayer.

Adella undaunted continued on with her prayer. Although I heard a few words like grateful and bless, I did not quite catch much else. My efforts were focused on controlling my urge to laugh. As I was seated next to Adella, I did not want my reaction to her words to deter her intimacy with deity.

And then two-year-old Jim, who had opted to stand on the other side of me during the prayer, decided to join in. I am not sure whether it was his intent to hurry Adella along or to simply participate with her in prayer.

“Mommy,” he said. Then, “Daddy.” It was clear he had been taught to pray for those he loved.

Adella continued on with her thanks and her petitions.

“Anma. Pop-pop.” Jim also continued on with his list, punctuating each name with great aplomb.

We adults redoubled our efforts to contain our laughter.

“Adella, Marshall,” Jim continued against the backdrop of Adella’s supplications.

“Basketball,” Jim added.

My resolve began to crumble. A few giggles escaped. Nonetheless, I was overjoyed to see that I rated higher in Jim's list than his basketball, his most prized possession.

I looked at Pop-pop, the serious patriarch of our clan, who was now cracking a smile. I was surprised. I had expected him, the paragon of brevity and directness as well as control, to intercede. And yet he did not. He felt, he later admitted, it was not his place to interrupt a conversation between Adella and her Father in Heaven.

Finally, Chrissy, Adella’s mother, saved us adults from asphyxiation due to suppressed laughter, stepping in to help Adella finish. “In the name of Jesus Christ, Amen,” she offered.

Adella repeated the phrase and Jim burst out with a loud “Amen,” and exuberant applause.

And we adults all exhaled in unison, releasing what seemed an eternity of pent-up laughter. And as we passed the pasta and the salad and the strawberries, we laughed together engaging in a verbal instant replay, each adult adding his or her own perspective to our communal play-by-play commentary about the prayer to end all prayers.

And so it began. An unpredictable start to yet another predictable Stornetta clan dinner. As always, Marshall tested the law of gravity. Adella hogged all the strawberries. Jim clamored for refills of his juice. Pop-pop gave his weekly inspirational message. And the adults discussed Brexit, the morning’s sermons, and the first recorded fart joke from Mesoptoamia. Not quite the Reagans. But three generations of a happy, loving family, nonetheless.