It was almost fifteen years ago when my enthusiasm for Thanksgiving shifted from excitement to, “Yup, just another dinner on just another day.” It hasn’t meant the same thing since. I’d welcome that feeling back in a heartbeat, but it never returned.
Every year, the kids and I made the holiday trip. I chose Thanksgiving because juggling Christmas with small children — plus inventing stories about how Santa visited both houses — was exhausting. Three kids in car seats, three hundred and fifty miles, constant questions, snacks, toys, and bathroom breaks. Christmas we stayed home. Upstate New York snowstorms made sure of that.
Thanksgiving, however, was non‑negotiable. My mother insisted it was my father’s demand, but it was always her voice behind it. Two weeks before the holiday, a check would arrive — enough for “proper clothing.” Avery and I had to wear dresses. The boys needed ironed button‑downs, dress pants, and ties. My boys were raised in the country; ties were better nooses than accessories. Rowan’s was off before we left the hotel. Ben at least waited until my parents saw it.
We weren’t allowed to stay in their six‑bedroom farmhouse — “too much noise” — so we drove the one mile from the hotel, all of us dressed like unwilling catalog models. Inside, chaos reigned. At least six kids were running around while my father crawled on the floor growling like a lion. My mother was the only one already in a bad mood.
She had been circling all afternoon, whispering comments, planting seeds. Thanksgiving wasn’t about being together. It was about control. And once everyone was finally trapped in the dining room, she struck.
She assigned my sisters and me the serving dishes — squash, potatoes, carrots, turnips — all the traditional foods my kids hated. My children and I were placed at the wobbly card table in the corner, the “kids’ table,” while everyone else crowded around the big dining room table. My irritation showed in the way I served the food: one large spoonful, dumped on each plate.
Then my sister Ann came over to my kids. She asked politely if they wanted what she was serving. All three said no. She served them anyway — huge scoops — and smiled as she walked away.
That was it. The gauntlet thrown.
I snapped. I yelled at her for forcing food on them, for crossing a line, for trying to parent my children. The kids were crying. Ann stood in front of me, taunting, “Come on, give it your best shot.” She wanted a fight. She would’ve had me on the floor in seconds.
My brother jumped in to “break it up,” adding his own insults. My parents were yelling. My siblings had me backed into a corner. Rowan was laughing, thinking it was a game. Ben was shouting at Ann to leave me alone.
It was bedlam.
I don’t remember how I got the kids out, only that I did — fast — leaving the yelling behind us.
Our Thanksgiving dinner that year? McDonald’s on the Mass Pike.
And honestly, it was the best part of the whole day.
Still standing, staying put for holidays now,
K.
I'm Still Here. Somehow... 