What Comes Next?

Well, it's a shanda to admit this, but let's face it, I'm pretty much an open book. Last night's attempt to light the menorah didn't go smoothly. Picture me, the shrinking confirmation drop-out, the youngest son, Bar Mitzvahed in 2008, and his father, called to the Bima in, what, 1970, messing up the most basic blessing, the one I could've sworn was ingrained in my brain for eternity. The afore-mentioned shanda went something like this:

"Baruch atah Adonai... oh, no, what comes next?"
"Why you looking at me, Ma?"
"You should know this."
"Baruch atah Adonai... Eloheinu..."
"Eloheinu what?"
"Eloheinu... Melech...."
"Oh, God, do I have to Google it?"
"Ha'olam!"
"From the top, boys."
"Baruch ata Adonai eloheinu melech ha'olam..."
"I don't think we're singing it right."
"No one's listening to us, Ma."
"Still..."
"Asher kid'shanu... umm..."
"B'mitvotav!"
"We're so good at this prayer."
"We're not that good."
"V'tsi... v'tsi..."
"V'tsivanu..."
"Bring it home, baby!"
"L'hadlik ner shel Hanukkah!"
"See, that wasn't so bad, was it?"
"No, it was terrible."
"As the Bible says, we lit some candles, we said a prayer, let's eat."
"The Bible says that?"
"Would I lie?"
"The latkes look good, Ma. Did you make them?"
"Yes."
"Really?"
"No."