The other day in the car I mentioned to my husband that this year I just don’t feel celebratory for the holidays in my usual way.
I’ve been enormously busy this year, and between the joys and the losses in too-rapid succession, I have hardly felt like I’ve caught my breath.
I run, run, run, collapse, then start the next day to do the exact same thing.
He didn’t understand what I was saying, and we even argued a bit.
I sunk deeper into myself and my own ache.
I just looked out my window like I have since I was a child, and quietly watched the raindrops race.
But this isn’t me. Not at the core.
The holidays are usually my THING.
I love going all out, and doing every traditional holiday activity. Who is this person?
I want ME back, the one I recognize, so I’m giving myself the same talk of what it’s all about that I normally give my teens when they say things like,
“All it is is eating and sitting. How is THAT fun?” and
“It’s fine if you like it. That doesn’t mean I have to. I’m not you. I don’t even like turkey anyway.”
I’m reminding myself of things like our very first Thanksgiving together as a couple,
right after my parents separated.
My now husband, Justin, decided to host at his apartment, a neutral space, and both my parents were invited, as we still hadn’t figured out how to do holidays with them this new way.
That morning the oven broke, and would only cook everything on 500 degree broil.
The turkey was done in an hour, and smoke filled the entire house so thick that we could hardly see. We just coughed and squinted at one another across the table, which was probably good, because most of us spent that meal crying the way you do when something you love breaks.
That terrible year was still somehow better, however, than the year my dad got in a head-on collision on the way to meet us all at my brother’s.
The woman who hit him was killed instantly.
We spent that Thanksgiving eating at the hospital cafeteria salad bar,
and trying to figure out where the police had taken his dog, who had been with him at the time.
No one cared at all that year about what or where we ate.
There was also the year that my Grandma King decided to try smoking the turkey;
Only she didn’t know how, and it cooked so slow that we ended up eating our finally finished Thanksgiving dinner at midnight off of paper plates in a dark room.
We ate our pie in silence, then we all went straight to bed, and had joint indigestion the entire next day.
My mom’s mom, my Nonnie, was nicknamed “Thelma Thanksgiving” because she was known for stuffing any open mouth within a mile so full of 30 kinds of Southern food that every meal felt like Thanksgiving, so you can imagine our ACTUAL ones.
As a family, we’d laugh and whisper about how we could ever get her to stop,
Now I feel sad that she did.
I wish I could go back to that butter-slathered kitchen for just one day…
The thing about these Thanksgivings, this up-and-down life,
is that even through a string of not-so-great memories
I still see the beauty shining through, not just what went wrong,
because, in my heart I know it’s not about an expertly cooked turkey,
or a constantly smiling face,
or a perfect looking life.
It’s about being able to look back IN SPITE OF, and still have feelings of thanks.
That house filled with smoke and that hour-cooked turkey have brought us laughter for years.
That cafeteria salad Thanksgiving was horrible,
but my dad is still alive,
and for that I’d eat in a hospital cafeteria every day.
That midnight smoked turkey dinner meant a longer time around the table with people that I love; A longer time to take in how my brother looked in his dumb Cosby sweater, and take photos to blackmail him with.
It was the last time I’d see my cousin Melissa before she died of cancer.
I still remember looking up over that midnight turkey, making knowing cousin eye-contact,
and then watching her try not to dissolve into laughter.
And Thelma Thanksgiving – she still lives on in every one of us whose faces she stuffed.
She will no-doubt be mentioned at each of our tables as we give thanks.
This, like all years, may not have been everything I hoped it would be,
But it has been enough.
So, I see you there, Thanksgiving.
I see what it is that you are here for.
I see how you try to shift the way that we see and feel things.
Four years ago, when my youngest was 8 years old,
I was already in the kitchen when I felt a small person by my side.
My daughter Paige stood looking up with a jagged smile, and eyes that I knew mean she was trying to bring up the courage to ask for something.
“You know what I wish I could have?”
“What?” I asked, smiling back hesitantly.
“I wish I could take one of those soft hamburger buns, and I could put lots of butter in between, and that I could turn it into the biggest yummiest roll anyone has ever seen.”
She looked at me like she was holding her breath,
and I thought about how sometimes that would be a thing I’d say no to,
but our kids were living lots of “No”s in the middle of the quarantine we were in,
so “I’ll let you have that,” I surprised her. “I will make that for you.”
“Wait. You WILL?!”
Her eyes were sparkling with surprise victory.
“Even with that good butter I like?” She dared to add.
“Even with the good butter,” I agreed.
So I made a Good Butter Burger, pushing past my initial rejections, and decided to join in her happy simplicity.
As I handed it to her she said the words,
“Today’s almost as good as Thanksgiving!”
She ran off, but her words stayed in the kitchen that day with a humbled version of me.
Children remind us to love what is simple.
It’s easy to focus on all the big, complicated things.
I watched her go smiling, still in her pajamas, butter smeared on both of her cheeks,
and in watching her I learned what I think was the lesson for that day, and for me to carry on to today.
ANY day is as good as Thanksgiving to see all the treasures;
Even the smallest ones – The ones that whisper, and never demand that we appreciate.
Shelter and sunlight, water, animals, the endurance of hope, and love’s intended capacity,
One more day with the ones that we tell stories about,
and if we’re really lucky,
Who knows?
We might even get handed a good butter hamburger bun to top off the whole thing.
May the good shine through this year, even if you have to squint to see it.
May you smile at a warm memory.
May you see those around the table with you as humans, who are possibly hurting, too.
May you feel every feeling this churning world gives,
and still find a way to hold the hand next to you and give thanks.
May you make memories, silly faces,
and have inside-jokes.
May you be who you know yourself to be.
Mom Outnumbered
Hi! My name is Kerri Green; Wife to Justin, and mother to four highly entertaining daughters -Alena, Chloe, Tessa, and Paige. I am an artist, a writer, a daycare provider, a lover of people, a believer that there is humor and beauty in all things, and the author of Mom Outnumbered; a blog about real family life, and my observations of it. My goal is to make people laugh, to be there for them when they cry, and most importantly, to let them know that they are not at all alone in this up and down world. I live with my family in Sebastopol California, and I am opening the window into our life. So welcome! Come in. Sit down. Just please don’t mind the mysterious wet spots.
