It’s that time of year
Tasks from the past two days:
-Clean up pee.
-Stand in the rain with the puppy.
-Clean up more pee.
-Stand in more rain.
-Comfort crying child who has been scratched.
-Comfort crying child who has been nipped.
-Comfort crying child from whom the puppy has been stolen by an older sibling.
-Comfort crying puppy.
-Clean up more pee.
-Yell at three-year-old to not roll in the poop.
-Clean up three-year-old.
-Clean up poop.
-Cuddle everyone.
Yes, it’s been even better than I imagined!
There’s something about moments like these — you know, when everything is going perfectly, but is also somehow simultaneously a disaster — when I feel like I have things figured out. More than that, I feel like freaking Wonder Woman! And as I sit here on the day before Thanksgiving, reflecting on my decisions and how I was right all along, I’m brought back to a Thanksgiving years ago. I can’t say which one for sure or how old I was. I don’t know what type of pies we had or who attended. In fact, I suspect this memory is perhaps an amalgamation of all the Thanksgivings of my childhood. Let me set the scene.
~
Picture three teenagers (let’s go with teenagers because it makes the protagonist of this tale, my mother, even more sympathetic) relaxing in the basement in front of a giant TV. They are surrounded by wrappers, a spilled soda, an open bag of chips. The oldest of the three, a boy, has the remote and is antagonizing the younger two who don’t want to be watching whatever it is he has selected. They bicker, and the waves of their pettifog challenge the aroma of home-made bread and pies for air space.
An apron-ed woman descends into the cave, notably overlooking the mess, ignoring the squabble, and neglecting to offer a reminder that the oldest had agreed to polish the silver, the middle child (me) had promised to help with the soufflé, and the youngest had offered to set the table. Nevertheless, as she passes by on her way to the pantry, a heavy tension beats away the teenage malaise. The three fall into silence and immediately take on an aggrieved posture. The lack of reprimand is perhaps worse than direct confrontation, and they have been around long enough to interpret the subtle slight correctly. Trouble is on its way!
As she ascends the staircase, the apron-ed woman stands a little straighter. The ornate black box containing her mother’s silver clutched under one arm, she pauses on the landing, surveying the scene before continuing on without a word. A myriad of thoughts race through her head, each more pressing than the last. With eight guests arriving in a few hours and her own family of five, she is tasked with preparing a feast for thirteen. The timing is sensitive. Naturally, she had prepared the pumpkin, pecan, and cherry pies, the cranberry relish, and the spiced apples the night before. She had been cleaning the house for days, despite a team of offspring working hard to undo her efforts. And she had risen at dawn to begin the sides. The many sides. But as she mentally checks off each completed task and organizes the web of to-dos, one thought rises to prominence:
Where the fuck is everyone?
She is pretty sure she is married. And she also recalls pushing three screaming babies out of her body, and then rearing them to the point of self-sufficiency, at least theoretically, and yet, once again, she alone is responsible for everything.
She picks up the pace, crashing empty pots into the sink and scrubbing them with vehemence.
From down below: “My God! She’s such a martyr. No one even cares about Thanksgiving. She does this to herself.”
Three hours later, her husband refills her glass of wine and the teenagers debate who has the hardest English teacher as they sit around the table, their plates piled high. She proposes they play board games after dinner, and her request is met with eye rolling.
~
Yes, I was an asshole. I know that now. I probably even knew that then. But I only recently have come to the realization that maybe I was also a little right. Maybe she did do it to herself. We sure as hell should have appreciated every moment, but despite our self involvement and entitlement, she continued to make twenty sides when all we really wanted were rolls, mashed potatoes, and some movies. And here I am, an apple not at all far from the tree, scampering around the house to move mountains. But you know what? Every once in a while it feels good to be that strong. To be able to accomplish what others can’t do. To bring some joy to the unappreciative little people in your life. To look in the mirror and say aloud, “I got this!”
That being said: People out there — stop being jerks! It might feel good to be Wonder Woman once in a while, but it also feels good to sit down, drink a glass of wine, and play on your phone while cuddling a puppy.