“At least we will have a real Thanksgiving,” Tallulah said when we found out that the Broseph had stepped in to provide plan B. Plan A was to go to a cousin’s house which is quite literally over the river and through the woods. And around the mountain for that matter. This plan was scuttled by what may have merely been heartburn or, possibly, a heart attack. In either case, not good, although as I think about it, one is definitely worse.
And definitely a fine excuse to disinvite guests for that Thanksgiving which was to be a real Thanksgiving. Which begs the question of how an eight year old comes to know what a real Thanksgiving is or ought to be. It’s not like we have a grand tradition to follow. There has not been such in my family since the Carter Administration, and my Sweet Lady’s family is so small as to not require grande traditions or logistics to gather together to ask the Lord’s blessing.
It must, then, be the schools what done it. What with their pilgrim hats and turkey-from-a-hand drawings. Tallulah apparently now has the same expectations implanted in her head which I carry around in mine. These expectations can be torturous, even when one knows that reality looks more like whole families in tiny hotel rooms or be holed up in the house with you helpmate, both puking your guts out.
Ok, so it’s not all vomit and poopy diapers, but it’s not all Norman Rockwell either. I’m neither ridiculing those who do belong in a painting or calling that image sour grapes. I’m just calling it less common than I once believed, and my gratitude for this day, like any other, is deminished when I compare it to an idealized standard. And isn’t gratitude what the day is all about anyway?