I gave up my Norman Rockwell-ian approach to family life about 21 years ago. Until that point, I found myself often facing despair and disappointment when my family fell short of picture-perfect. For some reason, I had this notion in my head (and a lofty one at that) about how things should work out but never quite did. When reality stepped in, I felt short-changed – until the day we got a puppy as a Thanksgiving present for our children.

It was supposed to be a scene clear out of a painting. It was the night before Thanksgiving in 1993. It was our family’s custom to have our little family dinner on Thanksgiving Day Eve since my husband was a hotel manager at that time, and he had to work most holidays. My son and daughter were dressed in their Sunday finest, and the table was set with china, crystal and festive linen. A special platter awaited the arrival of the bird that was cooking in the oven, sending tantalizing aromas throughout the house. The video camera was set on the tripod facing the front door where any moment Daddy would come in with the new puppy.

That year, we had decided to get the kids a dog. We visited a breeder to see a litter of bichon frise pups, and we instantly fell in love with the one lone male, a devilish critter who took great joy in nipping his siblings’ tails then running to hide. In keeping with our pattern of first initials, we named him Dusty. Dusty would be able to go home in three weeks, which just happened to be the day before Thanksgiving.

So, I did what I always tended to do in preparation for a major event. I created in my mind how this could be: picture-perfect! Somehow my concept of memorable included flawlessness. Hence, the kids were decked out, the table was set and the camera was ready to roll.

Then reality struck.

After a long day of setting up for the Thanksgiving buffet at the hotel for 600-plus people, my husband had to drive to the breeder to pick up our new dog. It was a good idea at the time, but we seemed to forget that the day before Thanksgiving is the most heavily traveled day of the year. An accident on Route 78 created even more of a delay on the return trip, and a tiny puppy who finds himself inside a box does not make a good traveling companion. As this was in the day before mobile phones, there was no way for us to know where he was or to provide distraction as he sat on a highway with a crying pup.

I took the turkey out of the oven as it was beyond cooked, and I made small platters for the kids who were near starving by this time. Finally, two hours later than planned, I saw my husband’s car pulling up in front of our house. I switched on the record button of the video camera and began calling to the children, “Come! Come! Daddy is home with our puppy!”

Now, in my wild imagination, I expected this to be something you would see in only Mayberry. The father would enter the door, flashing a sly smile and sweetly saying, “My dear children, here is your brand new puppy!” He would gently place the box on the floor and immediately show the kids how to pick up the tiny dog. Everyone would giggle, and the puppy would lick them over and over.

A man who has worked all day and sat in traffic for two more hours than planned is not a happy camper. He wasn’t smiling, and he didn’t utter sweet comments. Instead, the look on my husband’s face was a closer to Jack Nicholson.

He plopped the box with puppy in it on the nearest chair and announced with a few expletives that here was our dog. We also were informed the cute little yapping we were listening to had gone on incessantly for the past two hours inside the confines of a vehicle. (More expletives.) My husband then retreated to the bathroom.

My jaw dropped, and my demeanor sank as I realized this scene was not what I had envisioned for the bringing home of our dog. Norman Rockwell would never have painted this one. But the kids were totally oblivious to my perceived chaos. They were living in the moment, playing with Dusty, thanking us for their new pet and laughing and running all over the house.

And that was when I had the epiphany that family life is not about perfection nor is it about intentionally creating special moments. Sometimes the best memories happen when you just let the cards fall where they may with no expectations. Except for the fact that we have this whole event saved on video (which I have never viewed), our children’s memory of getting their first dog is one of excitement, laughter and pure joy.

I still make plans for our family, but I learned to go into them with little expectation of how it ought to be. And I find that time with family is all the more enjoyable when you see it as a blank canvas rather than a completed portrait.