This Thanksgiving was great with half our kids and grandkids joining us but I have concluded I need to reshape our Thanksgiving holiday and reclaim a spot on the sofa. Somewhere along the years, being a control freak, I conditioned my family to let me handle most everything. Oh, don’t get me wrong, they are very good about asking if they can help me with something, anything. But my standard reply is “no”. Does that make me a martyr? Because martyrdom is not what I aspire to. A date with George Clooney, maybe.
But back to my point.
Oh you say, why don’t you let others help you. Assign them tasks. They are adults, they can follow instructions. (Have you met my mother?)
Yes, I could let others help. But let’s pause a moment and listen to the typical chatter that would occur in my kitchen:
“Do you want this in the upstairs fridge or the downstairs fridge?”
“What table cloth do you want to use?”
“Are these water glasses? “
“Do the glasses go above the fork or the knife?”
“Where are extra chairs?”
“What time do you think we will be eating?”
“Did you remember to get those fluffy dinner rolls I especially like?”
“Where are the napkins?”
“Do you think the turkey has cooked long enough?”
“When can I put my pie in to bake?”
And then there is the clean up conversation:
“Can this go in the dishwasher?
“Do the wine glasses go on top?”
“What container do you want to use to store the leftover turkey? How about the yams?”
“Where are your towels to dry the dishes?”
“Do you want me to empty the trash?”
“Where does the trash go?”
“Do you want the dirty tablecloth in the laundry room?”
I don’t know about you, but all of this is identical to when my kids were little and the constant calling of “mom, mom, mom, mom”. I thought if I heard mom called one more time, I would burst into flames. I had that same feeling on Thanksgiving. If someone asked me one more question, I thought my head would begin spinning around like demon possessed Linda Blair and we’d have to call the church in to conduct an exorcism. And we’re not even Catholics!
Sigh.
Actually, I think the better answer is to just leave the premises, head to the bookstore and work on my next story. They’ll figure it out.
And if I can’t find the gravy dish by next Thanksgiving, I have a glass measuring cup that might work just fine.
Happy Hanukkah, Dear Friends,
by missing the mom gene
