I saw a meme the other day that said, “It’s almost time to spend three days in the kitchen so the kids can eat this:”
It then showed a picture of a single dinner roll.
I laughed, and passed it on, knowing it was true.
It garnered many likes from all the other mothers in my circle, because they obviously all understand the way that Thanksgiving goes.
(It’s usually a lot less Norman Rockwell than you would hope, as it turns out)
One year every single one of my kids developed the stomach flu mere moments before the food finished being cooked.
Another year the oven broke, and would only set to broil.
We could hardly see one another as we sat at the table, and carved at not only the powder-dry, crisp turkey, but also at the thick smoke.
Perhaps for some, a dream Thanksgiving –
No one visible to ask you if you’ve found someone to spend your life with yet, eating food done in record time, no one sure of exactly the moment that you split and run.
My feet have already started hurting the same way that joints ache when rain is about to come;
My old “Thanksgiving Feet” acting up again.
Hours spent standing on tile, preparing the feast are part of their core memories now.
I believe the ligaments know somehow what season it is;
That it is cyclical.
Gone are the days of old, with little ones around as I measure and stir, when what I listened to as I worked was one telling me she really hoped I knew she only liked the “flat kind of turkey” (lunch meat),
not the “gross kind that looks like a baby taking a bath.”
Now that the girls are much older, what I listen to are, instead, a multitude of sighs following me doing my list of egregious things,
like asking them to help me with something small while they are CLEARLY busy on their phones.
Yesterday I sat on the floor with a blow dryer and a bottle of Goo-Gone, trying to remove remnants of rug tape from the hardwood floor in preparation for the weekend.
I had already grocery shopped, started dinner, done laundry and dishes, dusted, vacuumed, and much more.
I asked my 13 year old, Tessa, who had been sitting literally all day, if she would please go grab me a paper towel, and she moaned, throwing back her head, and she said the words:
“This is supposed to be my vacation week.”
A record scratched.
There was a quaking at the earth’s core.
I could tell she immediately knew what she had done.
You know in the movies when a possessed doll turns its head real slow?
Well, that’s exactly how I turned to her, and, as if she felt a chill in the air from the vortex that was forming, she suddenly pulled her flannel more tightly closed.
*Somewhere in the foggy distance, a long-dead woman crawls from a well*
You do not say “vacation week” to a mother in November with wild, sweaty hair who is kneeling on the floor.
Those women are in a certain “zone” then.
You say yes, and then you don’t make eye-contact for at least 3 hours.
You are clearly new here.
This is how it’s done.
You eggshell-walk through “Thanksgiving Mode!”
Learn this, dear child.
Breathe it in like the sweet orange scent of this blessed Goo-Gone.
My other teenage daughter, Chloe, has a new boyfriend this year who just left for the week to Hawaii.
She’s spent 5 hours swaddled in a throw blanket already, just sitting in a chair.
Your thoughts and prayers would be appreciated as she will now have to be with only family for 9 days.
She has already muttered, “I don’t think I can do this,” meaning family time.
All she has left now are her oat milk iced coffees.
I made the terrible mistake of mentioning a possible summer family road trip to her.
(Apparently just to make matters worse , as is my favorite way)
How could I mention something like THAT when she’s already going through HER BOYFRIEND GONE?
How are teenagers expected to survive this kind of trauma, friends?
The world is dark and cold.
Every Thanksgiving I can count on many things.
All of that “togetherness,” as my teenagers would put it, kind of “hits” a different way.
My husband will take at least 8 naps like he’s narcoleptic,
my mom will think the turkey is not quite done,
my brother will wait until no one is looking and turn some kind of hunting or fishing show on, and we will all complain.
No one will touch the salad that I for some reason decided to make this year again,
and we will all sit around missing our annual call from our Aunt June who passed away last year.
She was so faithful at the holidays to phone and tell us that she missed us, as well as the list of people that none of us remember ever meeting that had gone on to be with the Lord.
Someone on a hoverboard will break something,
my youngest two will fight,
we won’t have thought to buy something crucial,
and I will wonder if I’m having a hot flash,
or if it’s just my old trusty Fight or Flight;
But, something that I can count on,
(It happens every year) is that when everyone has gone to bed and it’s just me sitting there by myself, alone with the drying dishes, as the dishwasher hums,
That family I love dearly, and laugh at, and cry with, and roll my eyes about, even with all its quirks,
will be what my heart dwells on;
I’ll realize I’m already in the very room I most want to be in when the quiet hours come.
My lips will curl as I experience true Thanksgiving then.
The kind that says, “Even though…”
“Even though they
aren’t perfect…”
“Even though they’re loud, and there was all that smoke…”
“Even though I’m exhausted now…”
“Even though we don’t see eye-to-eye on how to vote…”
“Even though it didn’t quite go as planned…”
“Even though they’re teenagers…”
“Even though he made us watch that boring show…”
They are mine,
and I am always so
thankful looking at my life from wherever I sit in that hour after the noise dies down,
when I am up alone.
As is tradition,
I will ponder a life more simple than mine,
maybe with a little more thanks aimed my direction,
Maybe with more classical music,
daughters less hormonal,
and kids that eat more than rolls.
I’ll come once again to the conclusion that my life has been filled to overflowing with things and people to be grateful for, and I wouldn’t have it any other way;
That in a world that seemed bent on breeding greed, and envy,
I hope it is said that I rebel led, and loved what was already my own.
This article was written by a guest blogger. The opinions expressed here are those of the writer and do not reflect the opinions of Bob Lacey, Sheri Lynch or the Bob & Sheri show.
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.
