Originally, we were supposed to travel to see friends for this Thanksgiving holiday. Plans were cancelled because the time was just not enough for the long drive. I explained to another friend of mine that we were staying home after all. He expressed his opinion that this was the right thing to do.
“You are the mother of two boys now. You shouldn’t be driving all over the country on the holiday.”
Taken aback, I responded, “I was taking them with me, you know.”
He forced me to look at this from another perspective: “That’s what I am talking about. You should be making dinner at home. These are the things they will remember when they grow up.”
Hmmm. Maybe he was right. Maybe my gypsy tendencies were depriving my children of the memories of holiday traditions at home. Every Christmas we leave and go to my mother’s in RI. I remembered the epiphany I had (the shame I felt!) when Ben, here only for 2 years, asked, “Mommy, what’s a Christmas tree?” To be fair, he was actually being coy. He knew what a tree was. It was what we had at Nanei’s house. It was what we saw decorated in stores and other people’s homes. It was one of the details of the holiday that I had decided we didn’t need to trouble ourselves with since we wouldn’t be in our house when Santa came, anyway. My annoying pragmatism was robbing my son of childhood memories. I remembered decorating the tree every year growing up. Why didn’t it occur to me that Ben would want those same experiences? We went out that night and bought a small artificial tree that we decorate every year.
I never felt that level of guilt about Thanksgiving. There were school Thanksgiving events. Sometimes we would go to a friend’s house to join their feast. Ben has never been interested in food and it would have been crazy to make a dinner for just us. But now we have Evan. Evan has food eccentricities, too, but he will eat chicken drumsticks and is a little more adventuresome than his big brother when it comes to eating. I had to stop and consider my friend’s advice.
Evan has been learning all about Thanksgiving at school. Last week, I was not all that surprised when he insisted I buy a turkey at the market. He wouldn’t allow me to put it into the main basket of the buggy. He insisted that he hold the frozen bird on his lap throughout the shopping trip. Evan asked me every morning leading up to today if I was going to cook the turkey. Every day, I pointed to Thursday on the calendar and told him that we were waiting for Thanksgiving.
This morning I got up early and prepared the turkey. I was glad the boys were not there to see me pull out the neck and the other parts. There was already little chance of getting Ben to try some. I asked him a couple of days ago, “Ben, will you eat some turkey? You eat turkey lunch meat…” I implored.
Ben said, “That depends, will it be shaped like a bird?”
“Yes, until I cut it,” I answered.
“Then, no. No thank you, but thank you for asking, Mom.”
Great.
I still had Evan, though. He was eagerly waiting for turkey day. Evan came in the kitchen and looked on with curiosity as I rubbed some spices on the outside of the bird. It was only a 12 pounder, but still quite impressive for our little family. I lowered it into the oven. Periodically, Evan ran out to the kitchen to ask when the turkey was coming. I signed that it was a big bird and we had to wait. As the time drew near, Evan came out just as I was basting the bird. He licked his lips and applauded. I thought about how abundant and luxurious it must seem to him to have such a large piece of meat all to ourselves. I beamed. I was glad I hadn’t “cheated” and gone out to eat, or bought a rotisserie chicken. My son would long remember this first Thanksgiving. Heck, he was like a Pilgrim himself – a stranger in a strange land – thankful that he had landed in a new life where a small boy could have a big bird on the middle of his dining room table.
I was quite caught up in this euphoric feeling as I put a cloth tablecloth on the table and cleared my work files from the area. We were going to have a real holiday. I set the table with the nice dishes. I started to wish that I had gone all out and made fresh biscuits and some traditional side dishes, but I reined myself in. Ben only eats corn from a can. He will ask, too. “Mom, is this from a can?” The answer had better be yes. I heated up canned corn and some French style green beans that Evan likes. Neither child likes bread.
I pulled the turkey from the oven. It was beautiful. I set it on top of the stove and left it to settle. I realized all at once that I was still in my sweatpants and no makeup. Well, this would not do. I caught a momentary glimpse of what Evan’s memory would play like when he was a 20 year old young man. I couldn’t have my son’s first Thanksgiving dinner served by his mother in her sweatpants and bed head. The boys were playing in the living room. I jumped in the shower. I put on jeans, a sweater – fixed my hair and put on some make up. As I emerged from my room, Evan asked me when the turkey was coming. “Right now,” I responded.
I put the turkey on the table along with the corn and green beans. I had a sweet potato. I offered some to the boys, but they refused. I cut into the bird and put the first slice on Evan’s plate. He looked thrilled. I offered a piece to Ben. He rejected it at first until I begged him to at least try it. Ben held a small fragment to his mouth and then declared, “No. But at least I tried it. Can I have some corn?” I filled his plate with corn.
I scooped corn and green beans on Evan’s plate. The two dug in. Evan ate a bite of turkey. He didn’t complain. But he didn’t eat anymore, either. Ben and Evan enthusiastically shoveled canned corn and green beans into their mouths. Ben looked at the turkey and asked, “Are those its legs?” “Yes,” I answered. “Oh my God,” he laughed, “Then that must be its…!! I can’t believe I am looking at that!” Ben giggled peels of laughter. I sat in front of my 12 pound bird. With a sinking feeling, I realized it was indeed MY 12 pound bird.
Then, I realized I had forgotten something very important!! (Cue the trumpets!) The STUFFING!! How could I forget!! All was not lost. We fought over the stuffing when I was a kid. It was more popular than the turkey. I stood up and motioned for them to look as I took the large serving spoon. With some ceremony, I inserted the spoon into the cavity of the bird.
A look of sheer horror crossed Evan’s face! As I pulled out a scoop of stuffing, he released a blood curdling scream. I realized all at once that he thought I was scooping out whatever a 6 year old imagines fills the inside of a huge bird. Ben exclaimed, “It looks like trash!” Evan leaned over to Ben, and held his hand up to his mouth to shield his words from me as he conferred with Ben; Evan babbled something as he pointed at me and then the bird with disgust. I burst out laughing so hard I dropped the spoon. I gave up. They finished the last of the canned vegetables and ran back to watch cartoons. I finished my turkey dinner and tried to think of ways to use leftovers.
I tried so hard to stage just the right memory for my children. Sometimes I feel like the purveyor of American tradition and I worry that I am not doing all that I can and should. In the end, they were the ones who gave me a memory I will never forget. There is something delightful about never being normal again. It is one of the blessings of parenting, for which I am ever thankful.
