For many a young boy the onset of puberty is celebrated with the first shave, even if there isn't a blade in the razor. I’m told that when girls come of age their interests change from softball, climbing trees and dolls to boys, frilly dresses and eye make-up. But for me I knew that I had become a man the first time I didn't have to sit at the kid's table for Thanksgiving dinner. It was one of the happiest days of my life; that day I was invited to join the grown-ups for the Thanksgiving meal.

Oddly, sitting with the old people proved to be a big letdown. I found their conversation boring and their insistence on good table manners a bit too confining. I have never quite enjoyed Thanksgiving as much as when I was extradited to the kid’s table by my mother.

When the relatives showed up at our house for Turkey Day all the young kids were shuttled off to the kitchen to eat. Our parents always told us it was because there wasn't enough room around the dining room table, but I also remember my mother thanking God for at least one peaceful meal a year.

To be segregated in such a manner was demoralizing for us youngsters and to further humiliate us a large plastic sheet was placed under the table just in case we might drop something. Although, as I recall most of the food and drink was spilled in the other room.

These days when it’s time for my wife and I to decide where we will freeload for Thanksgiving dinner my decision is always based on the seating arrangements. We always go where I can sit at the kid's table. They are preferred company. I don't have to worry about etiquette or the proper fork to use and no one seems to mind if I talk with my mouth open. And the conversation is much more stimulating than listening to Aunt Sis talk about her bunions or Chet his earthworms.

The best part about sitting with the kids is that you don't have to eat yams, cranberry sauce or giblet gravy. And the bubbly apple cider that we pretend is champagne has a much better flavor than the finest wine when shared with nieces and nephews. A Thanksgiving dinner with the kids is much more enjoyable because you can sit wherever you like and you don't have to worry about sitting in assigned seats so that certain warring factions of the family don’t sit next to one another get into yet another hostile debate on the merits of white versus dark meat.

Invariably it happens... half way through dinner it dawns on the old folks that the main thing they have to be thankful for is having far too much fun in the next room. By the time dessert rolls around the parents in the dining room will have had about all the peace and quiet they can stand for one year. They will go to the kitchen to check on their young ones and return with them in tow. The grown-ups will make some flimsy excuse for returning with their child such as, "They were throwing mashed potatoes at each other," or, "They were stuffing peas up their noses."

But the real reason the kids were brought into the dining room is because the grown-ups forgot to say grace and none of the older folks can remember a suitable prayer. Giving thanks at Thanksgiving is kid's work it seems, even if it is after the fact. So, one by one everyone will join hands, and then one very special, embarrassed, cute little kid will say grace, confusing the Pledge of Allegiance, a drinking toast learned from a deranged Uncle and a prayer taught in Sunday School.