Thanksgiving 2020

I hope I haven’t let you all down.  I’ve never gone this long without publishing something here, and the longer it went on, the harder it became.  I wanted to explain my absence; to fill you in on the chaos and madness and my deep sense of inadequacy.  I kept planning on a sort of summary.  Of the last two weeks.  Then the last month.  Now the last two.  

And I hope you all will accept my apologies, but I just… can’t.  I can’t do it all justice with the space and the time that I have.  So I’m just going to pick up again.  I’m going to start with NOW.  

Because NOW is the best that it’s been in a good, long while.  

Right now, I’m sitting at my desk in my bedroom, watching my youngest play corn hole with a friend in the backyard.  They’re masked, but the smiles reach their eyes as they laugh and tease each other.  The water is running in the bathroom next door, and I’m serenaded by Bea as she sings in the shower.  Her voice is clear and bright and full of promise.  Lee is in the basement, creating a new character out of fabric and makeup and imagination as he video chats with a friend who recently transitioned.  I’m so happy that he has connected with people who totally get him.  

There is turkey soup simmering on the stove, the culmination of leftovers from our traditional Thanksgiving meal on Thursday.  There were only five of us, but I still cooked for 12, and we’ll be eating this turkey all week.  I can’t say that I’m sorry.  I also can’t say that I didn’t have pie for breakfast yesterday.  

This morning, I went to the store before they all woke up.  I made cinnamon buns and homemade hash browns and sausage and eggs.  They all wandered in, sleepy-eyed and surprised by the morning abundance.  We sat at the table, laughing and bickering and fighting over dish duty.  Then we herded complaining kids into the living room for traditional tree-decorating activities.  They tease me for my sappy traditions… but they play along anyway. Somebody puts on the Christmas music.  Somebody groans as I tell the stories behind the ugliest ornaments again; the meaning and the story so much more valuable than the plastic or paper on a string.  We laugh at the little handprints and the old pictures.  Each person hangs the ornaments that contain his or her name.  The kids tease me that Lee must be my favorite child… his name is all over that tree.  I’m finally at the point where I can joke and tell the truth about it. 

When Lee came out, I handled it the best way I knew how.  I was supportive.  I did my research.  I found books and support groups and camps and conferences.  And despite all my reading, there were still things that still took me by surprise.  Those ornaments were one of them.  I didn’t realize how many ornaments were pictures or names.  This poor child freaked out a little.  He wouldn’t look at them.  He certainly wouldn’t let me hang them.  That first year, I did my best to use paint and white-out to change the ones I could.  Others got packed into a box.  Baby’s First Christmas with a little pink blanket.  Six little snowmen with names on their bellies.  Photos in popsicle stick frames, featuring a pigtailed little girl in a pink dress.  I felt awful.  And sad.  And awful that I was sad.  

So, the next year, I went a little overboard.  A little dog with Lee written across its belly.  Lee on a snowman.  And a santa.  A bell.  A penguin.  

No wonder they joke that he’s my favorite.  I was overcompensating.  

And just a year later, the damn ornaments hit me again.  Bea.  She had been part of our family for just four months.  And I did buy her an ornament with her name on it.  But only one.  And too late, I realized how incredibly insufficient it was.  She sat on the couch that year, and we had to coax her toward the tree.  She tried to shrink into the cushions and we kept handing her shiny red glass orbs, wooden angels, and Santas made of tin.  She reluctantly hung them.  

When we got to yet another sappy Christmas tradition, she silently sat and watched.  Cal and Lee gently removed the white padded box of ornaments.  We had received them on our wedding day.  Each of the twelve, hand painted glass trinkets represented a blessing, written out on a 12×12 piece of cardstock.  A pinecone for fruitfulness.  A fruit basket for abundance.  A tiny house for shelter and protection.   And so on…  

The boys knew the drill.  One would read the meaning.  One would hand us the ornament.  And Jack and I would take turns placing our wedding ornaments on the tree.  The final ornament, a white glass heart with golden rings on it, represented love.  We always hang it together and then share a chaste kiss.  The kids groan, because your parents kissing is inherently gross, and then we all laugh a little and pack up the now-empty boxes of ornaments.  

I remember worrying that first Christmas.  Did we offend her?  Are our traditions to blatant?  Too exclusive?  Too… happy? 

Fast-forward to 2020.  Those years feel far behind us.  The tree is peppered with all of their names.  They fight over who gets to place the rainbow flag on the tree.  Bea grabs the French Fry ornament from Cal, boldly exclaiming, “That one’s mine!”  They have their own stories to tell about the penguins and angels and small Santas.  They wrestle a little and laugh at my singing and groan together about the stories being told for the millionth time.  They all know the drill when it comes to the wedding ornaments.  They take turns reading and pulling the delicate glass from the box.  They hand them to us, and giggle about ‘fruitfulness’ and make inappropriate (but funny) jokes.  And when Jack and I kiss at the end, they all know that their job is to make gagging noises and groan.  They do so with enthusiasm.  

Today was a beautiful reminder.  It was a reminder that our mistakes don’t have to be failures.  They can be lessons.  The hard times don’t have to define us.  They can make us better.  I was reminded that family is family; whether you were born to them or you chose them, whether they are who you thought they would be or whether they have become something more than you ever imagined.    

I’m so grateful for this family of mine.  We’re an eclectic bunch.  Liberal and Conservative.  Black and white.  Messy and neat.  Strict and lenient.  Cis and Trans.  Gay and Straight.  Male and Female.  Singers and Gamers.  Artists and Writers. Birthed and Chosen.  Parents and Children.  

But each and every one of us is loving and loved.  

Today I give thanks for that blessing.