Post Turkey Day Blues

Yesterday I baked and set the table with dishes reserved only for holidays and special occasions. We sat at the table, my husband, youngest son, youngest daughter and her husband, and per tradition, each one told in turn what they were thankful for. Then, in less than half an hour, with the food left in ruins, plates empty, and the wine gone, everyone was back in their places watching TV, playing video games, or sitting outside to smoke while I went about finding enough room in the fridge for leftovers.

Today, I have the post turkey day blues.

I am the mother of twelve, Nana of twenty-five. When I was younger and the Nana of only a handful of grandchildren Thanksgiving meant all of the kids were coming home and there would be a couple of days of insanity, food and drink. And I loved every second of the chaos. Thanksgiving then meant no less than thirty people shouting to be heard over the noise, fighting over who was next in the bathroom, and shrieks of laughter as they ribbed, teased and told jokes about one another.

In the kitchen baking a different goodie for each one, I had grandchildren clamoring around to help me cook. I loved this part of the day when I could set grandchildren around the table with a big bowl in the middle, and as I measured ingredients I handed them off to the grandkids and let them add them to the bowl. Each one had a wooden spoon and all of them stirred, which eventually led to a battle of spoons. Usually we baked Toll House chocolate chip-oatmeal cookies and I didn’t care when half the batter wound up being eaten while they waited on the first batch of cookies to come out of the oven. And so what if they needed baths when we finished in order to get the dough out of their hair and off their hands and faces, Nana’s babies made cookies!

In those days there were no leftovers. By the time everyone had been home for a couple of days most of the food had been consumed, but whatever was left went home with my kids. Then the real clean up began! I remember after the last one had left walking back into the house, sitting down and listening to the silence, which seemed louder than the kids had been. The house in complete disarray, every dish either in the sink or in the dish rack, and every piece of furniture out of place.

I smiled as I thought of each one on my way to the bedroom where I climbed into bed to watch TV. I would get up in the morning and begin the clean up because Christmas was only a month away and I would get to do this all over again.

Over the years all of the kids have moved out, gone to college, married or just moved on with their lives. They live all over the place, Washington, California, Texas, Missouri and a couple are in Oklahoma so my Thanksgivings are much more subdued, although the phone rings constantly as they call to wish me a Happy Thanksgiving and each of them always say, “Mom, do you remember when we were all at home that one time and…”

So today is the day after Thanksgiving and Nana has the post turkey day blues.

Thankfully Yours . . .

Come the last week of November each year, I try and take off time from the EDJ (evil day job). First on my list of to-do's for the week is spring cleaning. Yup. You heard correctly. Spring cleaning in the fall. Just before the major holidays is the perfect time to deep clean every nook and cranny.

Call it a ritual, an obsession. Whichever, I find it necessary in order to get into "service mode", something I rarely do. With Thanksgiving comes my yearly transformation from selfish pig to humble servant. Rarely also, will one catch me in my glorious grump during this time. How so?

Simple. I know my limits.

Unlike the beautiful Cherub on the right over here, I'm not the "giving" type.


To even imagine picking up behind others, slaving away before a hot stove, or laundering nasty socks, years ago would've gotten me all out of sorts (actually, that is my usual sort...but whatever). I'm sure former neighbors have wondered just what the hell was going on up the hill, with all the shouting. For their inquiring minds--that would have been the old me trying to domesticate.

But not so anymore. I am capable of caring for others, as long as it's sporadically and sparingly--and NEVER asked of me. No. I can't do that one. I can, however, decide on my own terms when and just how I will give. The house will be spotless. There'll be pies, a funky jello dessert or two, salads, veggies, mashed potatoes, gravy, stuffing, rolls, cranberry sauce, and I'll even manage to pull off a not-so half-baked bird.

Over time, I've come to realize that I'm okay with giving this much one week out of each year. Like I said, I know my limits, and the guys seem to have learned and accepted them also.

Every day, sans the last week of November, I lift not a finger. Sugar Daddy takes the boys to and from school, packs their lunches, helps them with their homework, and they all work together to keep the house "liveable". Laundry, vacuuming, cooking, dishes, yardwork, shopping . . . Heck, Sugar Daddy even chops wood and can tune a carburator in know time flat. But come Thanksgiving each year, it's my time to give to them for a change.


<----- On Thanksgiving, Sugar Daddy loses the apron!

Though the boys will come home from school one day next week, pause just inside the door, and inhale deeply, exclaiming, "Wow. It smells great in here!" And though ten minutes after the Thanksgiving feast is served, it will be devoured, bragged upon, accompanied by a few belches, and inevitably forgotten in the turkey sandwiches of the morrow, I will smile, satisfied with a job well done. More satisfied that the job is then, done.

And that's all right with me. Because, I get the next 364 days off. Free from distractions, so I can write. Free from worries and mundane tasks. And thankfully, Sugar Daddy and the boys are okay with it. They'd better be. Curious, who's cooking for you this Thanksgiving?


Thankfully Yours,
~Bryl