dinner magic

Scott and I were only gone for a few days.
But it was magic.
There was magic found in being a couple again,
laughing with friends, having long chats and holding hands.
But mostly it was magic because we were able to sit down
for 5 uninterrupted meals in a row.
6, if you count the Togos sandwiches
we downed in the car on the way to the ministers retreat.
And I did count out the meals, tsgs, because
this is not something that happens in the Aughtmon universe.
Usually, when I call everyone to eat, I am like a cowgirl
trying to rope an entire herd of cattle using an overcooked noodle.
Scott is my partner in this crazy round up.
We start with prayer and the passing of food.
Within seconds there is a cob of newly buttered corn on the floor.
Corn is redistributed. I forget to pour water for everyone.
Scott gets the water. Someone spills their water.
I am up for a towel and down on the floor, wiping the water,
where I find the remains of lunch's pb&j crusts and other niceties.
I get up quickly before I spot anything else disturbing.
Addison hurls his bowl to the floor, giggling.
He wants to see me crawl under the table again.
Luckily, he is strapped into his high chair because
Scott is having great difficulty keeping the older children in their chairs,
as they are like human pop corn,
and every few seconds shoot up out of their seats.
I become the veggie hound.
"When I said eat your corn, I didn't mean lick all the butter off,
and put it back on your plate."
To which the one child says, "I love corn."
And the other says, "I don't care for corn."
Because they know if they say "I don't like corn",
Their mother, who has lovingly made the corn,
will manifest an unholy personality and start saying things like,
"There are children all over the world with no corn whatsoever,
who would love your corn, who have prayed for corn. Eat your corn."
We have the rule that you must try one bite of everything on your plate.
My children have mastered the technique of the teensy-weensy bite.
"Take a bite of your corn."
"I did take a bite."
"I don't see a bite."
"Right here."
"Where?"
"Here...see?"
And there is, when I pull out my electron microscope,
the smallest of grooves on an individual kernel of corn.
"Is that enough? Because I don't care for corn."
And by this time, I am very tired,
and not holding to principles of any kind, and I say,
"Yes, one atom of corn qualifies as a bite in the "official rulebook of bites".
Clear your plate. I am done with you.
I have aged an entire year just trying to get you to eat
some of the most fantastic corn in all of America."
And come to think of it,
I don't know why I am so fired up about the children eating their corn,
when I'm pretty sure none of it actually gets digested.
But that is beside the point.
All of this takes place, before Scott or I actually take a bite of food.
That's just how it goes down.
We usually end the meal with another spill,
a fork in the trash we have to dig for,
and Addison running some kind of food through his hair.
So believe me, when I say, that one meal served to me by someone else,
accompanied by fine coversation and a hot cup of coffee, borders on bliss.
But 6 in row? It's not of this world.
It's magic.