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The 40th President of the United States of America, Ronald Reagan, said "All great change in America begins at the dinner table." I'm assuming, based on my experience at our dinner table, Mr. Reagan said this during the end of life when his brain was ravaged from the effects of Alzheimer's.
Against my better judgement I watched an episode of Duck Dynasty recently, let me first say...I don't get it. The whole "reality" show is clearly an orchestrated if not entirely scripted attempt at creating a real sitcom. The most obvious instance of director manipulation, camera trickery, and character performance is the dinner table scene, which as I understand, takes place at the end of each episode. This scene is so obviously unrealistic, that it makes James Cameron's Avatar look like a documentary.
The Duck Dynasty family is gathered around a huge family table, everyone is seated peacefully and the conversation seems pleasant and respectful. I'm throwing my B.S. flag, or D.S. flag in this case. First of all what kind of dinner doesn't have chicken nuggets? Where is the one kid complaining about the chicken nuggets? Where is the chorus of children chanting in unison, can I have a drink? None of them want the same drink of course. Do the Duck children not get upset about the color of their plates or cups? Do they just intrinsically understand that food and beverages taste the same regardless of container hues? I find that hard to believe.
At my house, dinner includes at least one skirmish over where each child is going to sit, "I was sitting there first!" should be a part of our family crest. The Duck table always seems to have an enviable spread, but nary a ketchup bottle in sight. The ketchup bottle is a bastion at the Cecil family table-scape. According to the refined palettes of the Cecil children, everything tastes better with ketchup. It is not uncommon to see L dip his fingers into a glob of ketchup, and then directly into his mouth. Literally, finger-lickin' good...I have to look away when he does it, as it induces a my hare trigger gag reflex.
"I just don't like pizza!", states E. This is a recent development, as recent as last week he was eating Pizza like it would soon be outlawed. Before dinner I usually have to prepare myself for the eventual fight of clean your plate, if you want dessert. "How many bites do I have to eat?", says H in a tone that is far too whiny for questioning how many carrots she has to eat. As the older kids complain about what they have to eat, little L goes through his mealtime ritual which includes throwing food distances that would impress NFL combine scouts.
Our family dinners consist of more chaos than culinary consumption, that is fact. However, we will never stop having family dinners, primarily because of the nuggets of conversation that happen between bites of nuggets of processed chicken. We enjoy playing a dinner game we call, Happy High Sad Low. As its name implies, we go around the table and say what our happiest moment of the day was and what the saddest moment of our day was.
"My happy high was petting the doggy sharks at the zoo." says Z.
"What was your sad low?" I ask.
"That E, hit me." she replies, speaking of an incident that no one can really remember but we all, even E, assume probably occurred.
"What was your Happy High, H?"
"That we go to the park." she says through a bite of mini corn dog
"What was your sad low?"
"That Z, didn't share her toy with me." H offers, again this is a specific event that no one can seem to specifically recall happening, however because of its typical nature, no one doubts its authenticity.
"L what was your Happy High?" I ask, already knowing the answer is going to be fire truck, ambulance, because that's what it always is.
"Fire truck, Ambulance!!!" L, says excitedly. Oblivious to the fact that we haven't seen any emergency vehicles today.
"What's your sad low?" Again, I already know what his response will be.
"Fire truck, Ambulance!!!" His Happy High and Sad Low are always one and the same...that must be very confusing emotionally.
"E what was your Happy High?" I ask my son.
"That we're having cookies for dessert." he responds.
"And your Sad Low?"
"That Z, hit me." he answers, most likely fabricating a story to disparage other eyewitness accounts that place him at the scene of other physical altercations.
"What was your Happy High mom and dad?" H squeaks.
The kids always ask us the question in return. Inevitably, and for reasons I cannot comprehend given the nature of our family dinners, we always answer that our Happy High is right now...sitting around the table...eating dinner with our family.
P.S.
Check out this previous post with a video the kids and I made.
