Insignificant Woman’s Thanksgiving

This year my parents hosted Thanksgiving. It was just them and us, not a big family gathering. I made my now traditional apple cranberry dressing and this year I made my very first pumpkin pie and pie crust.

My parents indicated that dinner would be ready at five or five thirty. Because I’m bringing stuffing I told them we would be there between four and four thirty. I mean it’s nice to eat things when they’re still warm. Stuffing doesn’t have to be piping hot, but it stays toasty for quite a while in the cast iron Dutch oven I use, usually without drying it out too much.

We arrived at four thirty. Sophia became very clingy. “Oh Sophia you’ve been here before.” My mother says. She gets close to Sophia, in her face close. Sophia begins to cry while hanging onto me. “Oh you’ve been here before, aye, don’t cry.” My mother says as if that’s going to change the way Sophia feels. I sat on the couch with Sophia for a couple minutes and again my mother gets in her face. “Oh Sophia do you want me to get out the toys? Do you? Do you want me to get the toys?” She asks. Sophia says nothing of course, and tries to turn her face away from my mother. She finally retreats and then tells me, “She should be getting to the age where she remembers things.” Sophia has a great memory. Her response has nothing to do with memory. None. My mom goes on to say, “You were never like this as a child.” I raised my eyebrow and gave her a what-the-fuck-are-you-talking-about look. Seriously, her forgetting I was ever a shy child, or more accurately, rewriting my history is like pretending Auschwitz was just a Jewy summer camp.

I used to hide under my bed our family would come over. I would hide under there for hours (it may have only been minutes – I was a kid, the time exchange rate is different for kids), and I didn’t come out until it was almost time for them to go. I don’t know how old I was, but I imagine somewhere between three and five. “Oh you didn’t do that.” My mom said, “you used to go play in your grandpa’s camper with *cousin’s name*.” It’s true, that did happen. I remember we hit a switch in there by the sink as one of us climbed up into the bunk and we didn’t know what it was but it was making an odd noise. That was only one instance where either I didn’t hide or I came out early enough to play with my cousins before they left. My grandpa only had his camper there for a week or so and then left again. He never stuck around anywhere for very long. I don’t remember everything, but I do have a host of incredibly detailed memories.

My mom finally brought out the toys she kept mentioning to Sophia. As soon as Sophia saw them she slid down my lap to go play with them across the room. She allowed my mom to give her a hug, but then my mom tried to pick her up or give her kisses and Sophia started to push her away. Kurt and I both sat on the couch watching them. I finally spoke up when Sophia began arching her back, “I think she’s done for now.” My mom began to stand up, “oh no, she wants me to pick her up.”

“No, she wants down.” Kurt and I both said calmly. My mom put her down. Sophia went to play with the toys, and my mom went to the kitchen to continue cooking.

“The ham said three hundred and twenty-five degrees for ten minutes for every pound. I didn’t know the ham would take so long, so I just now put it in the oven.” My mom told me. That figures.

“Do you want some blueberries,” my mom asked Sophia, “I heard they’re your favorite.” I don’t know where she heard that but she was definitely miss informed. She cut up some apple for another dish she was making and gave some slices to Sophia along with some blueberries. It bothered me that she didn’t consider that Sophia might not eat after a snack, but I didn’t say anything. It’s apple, it’s not like she handed her cake or something. The blueberries went untouched of course.

Dinner was served at six thirty…thirty minutes after Sophia’s apple snack. The spread was very nice. Ham, sliced yams with apple and pineapple, mashed potatoes, gravy, peas with pearl onions, cranberry sauce, Pillsbury biscuits, and dressing. I put a little dab of everything on Sophia’s plate except for a biscuit. Sophia wouldn’t come to the table. She was too busy playing with the toys.

My mom came to the table after finding serving utensils for every dish. She served herself a little of everything. Kurt lured Sophia to the table where she stuck her finger in the little bit of mashed potatoes I gave her, quivered, and then left for the toys again. My mom grabbed a biscuit and held it up for Sophia to see, “Here Sophia come have a biscuit.”

“Please don’t give her a biscuit,” I said, “If she gets one that’s all she will want to eat.” I was completely ignored. I can see if I made the request without any explanation that someone would just blow me off thinking I’m just one of those micro-managing moms, but I specifically gave a concise background for my request. I hoped that at worst I would have to talk in-depth about Sophia finicky eating habits.

“Oh it’s ok she can have a biscuit,” my mother informs me. Really? Odd, I thought I was the mother of this one. I have rather vivid memories of squeezing her out of my who-ha. She acts as if I’m not accepting the biscuit for my child because I don’t want to bother the host. She just can’t accept the simple request that my child eat something else first. “Come here Sophia, look.” She said.

“Please don’t give her a biscuit; just don’t give it to her.” I said getting frustrated. Sophia came to the table and sat in her chair.

“See,” my mother says to me triumphantly, “she came to the table.” I said nothing. My mother waits a minute, still holding the biscuit up. I know it’s coming, her meekly uttered statements that she tries to pass off as a polite suggestion. As if it’s a change in demeanor fixes the fact that she won’t respect my one simple request, “oh Ed-EE-kah (my name said with a Mexican accent) she can have…”

I cut her off, and without any thought at all I snapped at her, “Don’t tell me how to parent MY child!!” Everything went silent for a moment. My mother understandably recoiled, but acted, as she always does, like my anger came from absolutely nowhere. The only time she ever hears me is when I snap at her.

She’s like a toddler constantly testing my tensile strength. She must have also forgotten how stubborn I was as a child. I don’t give up, not even on an issue as stupidly retarded as giving my toddler a biscuit. I know if I give in she’ll just keep chipping away at me. She has no clue where the boundaries lay and seems to presume by imagined powers vested in grandparents that she has, at minimum, equal parenting authority over Sophia. That is not the case, and it NEVER will be.

Kurt calmly explained, “We noticed that if Sophia has bread first that’s all she will eat.” My dad agreed that it’s better for her to have a variety of food and my mom finally put down the fucking biscuit. She’ll listen to Kurt, but not me. My voice is insignificant to her – that hurts like hell.

After dinner we cleared all the plates and Sophia came to the table to take her untouched plate (aside from the poked mashed potatoes) to the counter too. My mom brought out some SD disks of photos she transferred from slides to digital format and watched them on the TV. We got in a couple other minor arguments over some other incredibly stupid things. Pumpkin pie was served and then Kurt and my dad disappeared to the garage to look at my dad’s motorcycle. Sophia wanted to follow but was too slow. She came back upstairs, grabbed my mom’s hand, and led her down so she could open the door for her.

At eight o’clock Kurt, Sophia, and I got ready to go. Sophia didn’t put up any fuss getting her shoes and coat on. After she was ready she went to the door and carried Kurt’s shoes up the stairs to him. He put his shoes on and then she grabbed both of us by one finger and led us to the door.