over the river and off the deep end

Guest post by the dayton time

So my mother has decided that she is going to be the Thanksgiving Hostess this year. Her house is located in the same quaint little village as ours, and it is for sale. Although I keep wondering if her Realtor remembers the freaking house is up for sale, because she never shows it. There's a contingency offer on my mother's house, and I guess that's good enough for the Realtor.

My mother doesn't really cook any more, since the father figure left her seven years ago, and all of us have since moved out, and, well, why cook for one? She doesn't invite us over for dinner unless one of my brothers are in town, and then it's A GREAT BIG SHOW of FAMILY and LOVE and STUFF!!!!!

She wants to hostess Thanksgiving because she might never get to have Thanksgiving again. This makes my eyes get all squinchy, and my teeth clench, and my head begin to shake back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, like the crazy stalker mommy in that horrible book everyone gives you when you become a mama. (Don't even tell me she's not crazy. All I have to say is this: she straps a LADDER to her CAR to climb up to her GROWN SON'S ROOM to ROCK HIS ADULT ASS whilst he sleeps. Crazy.) She's just moving to another town, for flip's sake.

And this Thanksgiving? Is Cutie Pie Dimple Head's second birthday. And this? Is Cutie Pie Dimple Head just hours after his birth. And yes, my boobs were bigger than his head. I like this picture of me because the angle of my face shadows/disguises/who cares what you call it, all my preggie facial rolls aren't there. Due to the circumstances, I think I should be the one who gets to decide about Thanksgiving. After all, the child was about the same size as the turkey we'll be serving to eight adults and three children, oh yes he was, I remember, and I feel it is my right, as resident Child The Size Of A Turkey Pusher-Outer, to call dibs on Thanksgiving at my house.

I did not get to spend that day at my home two years ago. In fact, I believe we celebrated Thanksgiving at my mother's house that year (DC-area brother was home), and last year we ate at my in-laws' house, so it's my turn anyway.

And it's my kid's birthday, for flip's sake.

Here's what will happen if we tell my mother Thanksgiving is at our house: she will insist on making the turkey. Not a big deal, right? Except for my mother likes to eat holiday dinners at Not Dinner Time, you know, around 2 in the afternoon. Hear that sound? It's the mommy buzzer going off, and why? Because all good children who value their general state of being ought to be taking naps at 2 in the afternoon. And pregnant women like me? Ought to be taking naps, and two o'clock is just as good a time as any, because, duh! the three kiddos are asleep, so it just makes sense.

This is how it will go:

If you tell your mother you are having Thanksgiving at your house, she'll tell you she wants to cook the turkey.

You'll tell her dinner's at five.

So she'll put the turkey in the oven at 8:15 a.m. And the turkey will be done around 1:30.

She'll give you a call, waking you up from your nap, thereby interrupting the growth of the itty-bitty baby in your belly, and want to eat dinner.

Except you won't be able to wake up in time to answer the phone, so she'll leave you a very.detailed.message.

You'll call her back, and she'll tell you she's putting the turkey in the car to bring it over so everybody can sit down to eat. But then you'll tell her that everybody's actually asleep, and there's not any other part of the dinner that's prepared, because dinner's at five. And also? Your husband isn't home from work yet.

She'll be very displeased. And inform you that she will be down with that turkey in three hours. So there. You had better hope that it's still warm and not dry and gross. So there.

So you'll get up from your five-second-long nap and start banging around in the kitchen, maybe make some coffee to get your keister in gear, and you'll drop the carafe to your French Press on the floor. And it will shatter. On the way to the broom closet, you will step on that one piece of glass that travels across the room, and cut your pinky toe off. Well, not actually off, off, but it will be gross.

Your children, hearing you cry out in pain (the toe situation), anger (the French Press situation), and frustration (the pregnancy situation), will awaken abruptly from their slumber and rush to the kitchen, and each of them will step in one of the other errant shardlets, and will spontaneously combust into a flaming pile of scream. It will be awesome.

You manage to sit upon each child, remove the shardlets, and apply enough band-aids to cover the wounds of small war-torn nations. And clean up the floor.

You will peel potatoes and the last of the turnips from the CSA, and they will boil away happily, and you will mash them with abandon, all the while trying to remember what you were doing before the whole Bloody Toes Incident began.

It will somehow become the Appointed Hour for dinner, you will not have remembered you wanted coffee, and your glorious mashed potatoes ~~and turnips~~ (because turnip usage is a secret, secret thing) will be ready, steaming with abandon on the table, next to the squash, the homemade cranberry sauce, the creamed pearl onions that the other grandparents brought. Your grandma's china, with its silver rim and subtle green leaves curling around to the left, looks lovely on the orange and green tablecloth you found at the bottom of the clearance section at the Kmarts last December. And in the center of the table? The beautifully-set, Country Home Magazine Seal of Approval table?

Nothing.

You imagine that a platter of turkey would look marvelous there. In fact, the platter does look marvelous in the center of the table. You set it there to be sure there was enough room for it when the turkey arrived with your mother, three hours from when you called her back.

But? No turkey.

So everyone covers the beautiful dishes of food with shiny aluminum foil to keep the heat in while you wait. And wait. And wait.

An hour later, she will arrive.

And she will say, Oh. I thought you said dinner was at six.

Be sure to check out Pamela at her blog the dayton time and tell her the bunny sent ya!