It’s Thanksgiving. 8:25AM. I’m eating cold pizza.
I KNOW. Who in their right mind does that on the morning of the most “important” meal of the year?
The woman who knows she doesn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of eating that meal. . .that’s who.
Here’s the thing, due to the fact that Thanksgiving’s on a Thursday, we usually stay local and celebrate it with my in-Laws. This year is no exception. . .
What is an exception every year is everything else. . .where we eat, when we eat. . .It’s never the same. Every year, several days before the holiday, we wait for a phone call telling us when and where we’re supposed to be.
I find this a little disorienting. My own family never operated this way. When I was a kid, you hit both grandparents for every holiday (maternal AM, paternal PM), our own house for Christmas Eve, and if the weather was warm, you were likely at our maternal grandparents’ cottage or my paternal grandparent’s house in rural Big Valley swimming and catching fireflies.
When I was a kid, I could count on this stuff. I’m sure for the adults it was a colossal pain in the ass, but I loved every predictable moment of it. I loved the blue cheese ball, the deviled eggs, my Mom and Dad’s Christmas Eve bean dish, I loved that my Grandma Dot would never be so much as a second late pouring the cocktails or putting out the Pringles. I loved the ice cream shaped Santas and Christmas Trees my Ma-maw gave us every Christmas morning. . .
But disoriented as I feel, no worries. . .my in-laws make some excellent dinners and are a fun bunch and I never expected Mac’s traditions to be exactly the same as my own.
Except I did sort of expect actually eating dinner would always be part of our Thanksgiving tradition. . .
This year when the call came it included the instructions that we were eating at noon. Right. Mac takes a nap every day starting about 1.
“How will that even work?” I hissed at my Husband in an incredulous tone when he told me the plans.
“I don’t know baby. We’ll just stop by and hope for the best and we’ll pack everything up and put him in the car and drive him around for his nap.” His eyes pleading with me not to make a big deal about it.
So I’m not.
We’ll pop in at noon, hope Mac feels like flinging around some mashed potatoes for about 20 minutes, clean up the mess he made, stuff him in the car, and spend the following 3 hours driving him around while he naps.
What’s important is the kid have some sense of family and tradition come the holidays. . .not whether I get some fucking oyster dressing.
I hope Mac enjoys. . .because one day he’ll be an adult, maybe with a family of his own and then he’ll truly understand the magic of the holidays depends on a LOT of adult sacrifice and misery.
A very Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours. . .While I complain a LOT for comedic effect, I am truly grateful for my family and all of our blessings.