Last year, in an attempt to escape the running around and family drama, we opted to spend Thanksgiving in the comfort of our very own home.
It was weird and kinda sad.
I grew up celebrating with cousins and grandmas and aunts and uncles, so downsizing was hard.
Until we collapsed on our couch Christmas morning, and watched our kids playing under the tree, surrounded by paper and empty boxes and realized, and realized this is exactly how the holidays should be.
We fell in love with this house, envisioning the holidays we’d spend here, not the holidays it’d spend empty and dark as we ran from obligation to obligation.
So in following our new tradition, we slacked.
If people want to see us, awesome, they know where we live.
I spent Thanksgiving in yoga pants and a sports bra. I have a messy kitchen that still smells like amazing from-scratch food that I made from my grandmother’s cookbook. And I didn’t even have to shower, because we didn’t have shit to do but sit around and enjoy ourselves.
We watched the parade over pancakes and then napped for three glorious hours, which I was especially thankful for considering Poppy, like all things I birth or accumulate shortly after birth, is starting out life with her days and nights confused.
Which is why God makes puppies look like puppies, and not like, say, turkeys.
Because I would put up with a turkey waking me up at 3am and pulling my used pads out of the bathroom trash in front of my brother-in-law for exactly four seconds before I ate him. Assuming he didn’t eat my pads…because that seems, like….cannibalistic?