Norman Rockwell is famous for showing us the “perfect” dinner in his painting Freedom From Want.  But what he does not capture in that snapshot is the imperfections.  It conveniently leaves out the crying child who doesn’t want to eat his vegetables or the disgruntled forty-something, picking apart all the problems with the meal. I don’t ever remember sitting down to a family dinner and eating the perfect meal or seeing every face beaming. However, sometimes the imperfections make a meal the most memorable.
   When I arrived at my grandparents’ house on Christmas Eve, everything seemed perfect to the eye.  The oven was filling the house with delicious smells, the tree was lit and decorated, and everyone was dressed in their Sunday best.  When all of a sudden, Trucker and Luke, the two family dogs, bounded to greet us, knocking a few people off balance and whacking kids with their tails.  Trying to get both the kids and dogs out from underfoot, we were sent to the playroom, one of the most anticipated things about our grandparents’ house. Since I was the oldest, I was put in charge.  Immediately the younger girls started fighting over who owned the toys in the playroom.  I told them that originally they were my toys and I was sharing with them, so they needed to share with one another, which calmed them down some but they still were not sold on the idea. 
   A few Barbie outfits and Lego buildings later, we were called to the dinner table.  Prying the kids away from their toys, herding them downstairs, washing their hands, and getting them seated was hard enough, when controlling the dogs and putting all the food out was added, it was nearly an impossible task.  But somehow we all managed to gather around the perfectly set table in the dining room complete with crystal chandelier, fine china, flickering candles, and polished silver.  Following the blessing, an impromptu chorus of young voices singing God Our Father arose.     After the food had been doubly blessed, the perfectly carved beef tenderloin was placed before us.  It was the Norman Rockwell moment that was interrupted by a second grader’s voice saying, “Mom, do I have to eat that?”  This set the stage for the rest of the dinner, when most adult conversations were interrupted to convince a child that vegetables were delicious.  
   When everyone was finished and the plates were cleared, it was time for dessert.  With the lights turned off, we sang happy birthday to Jesus in the candlelight of his birthday cake, which all the kids got to help blow out.  Then the chocolate log cake with mocha icing, a family tradition, was served.   After every china plate was practically licked clean, all the kids were ready to jump out of their seats to unwrap presents.  But first, they had to wait to see who would get to snuff out the candles on the table.  They knew better than to blow the candles out and get wax on the linen table runner and polished wood table, and that they had to wait for our grandmother to hand them the snuffer.  When one child was picked and got to smother the flame, all my other cousins watched jealously, but all hard feeling were forgotten in the hurricane of wrapping paper that soon littered the beautiful perfectly decorated living room.  The joy and laughter throughout was what our family gatherings are all about.
   When we aim for perfection, often we miss the memories.  It would not be my family Christmas without some of these imperfect incidents.  If the dogs did not greet me by almost knocking me over, it would not be my grandfather’s home.  If the house did not look perfectly prepared, it was not my grandmother’s home.  If my cousins were not a little rambunctious, it was not my family.  These little quirks make us who we are and give us the best memories to look back at and smile.  My grandmother’s table, complete with melted candles, water rings, and discarded napkins, may not be a Norman Rockwell painting, but it’s a picture of my family, which makes it special to me.