So, by the time Jake got home, I was whimpering, my right hand in the freezer, moaning about finishing the mashed potatoes. He’s the best husband in the world, because he made me an ice pack, and offered to finish the potatoes. I sat on the floor with Sara and watched a video with her while he peeled the potatoes. He whittled most of them down to the size of golf balls, but that’s OK. He tried.
The mashed potatoes are on the stove, so Jake and I have a few minutes before we have to start getting ready for people to arrive. I’m going to run and write an entry on my blog. I think I’m going to write about my confusion over the lack of quality movies revolving around the Thanksgiving holiday. There are a few standouts, but I can count them on one hand. There’s tons of great Christmas movies, why no love for Thanksgiving?
9:00 P.M.
The tryptophan is seeping into my brain, but I’m going to try to recap Thanksgiving.
My parents and Sam arrived on time, clutching a case of beer and two bottles of wine.
“Happy Thanksgiving!” I said as I opened the door.
“The place smells amazing!” my mom said as she walked in the door. “Clare”—she leaned forward to hug me—“thank you so much for doing this.”
“Piece of cake,” I said, and hid my burned hand behind my back.
“Happy Thanksgiving,” my dad said. “Where’s the squirt?”
“She’s napping. I wanted her to go down before dinner or else she’d be a beast,” I said, and took my parents’ coats. I turned to Sam, who still hadn’t said anything. “Sam?”
She stared off into space.
“Sam?” I said again.
“Oh, sorry. What?” she said. Her eyes looked glazed over and her hair was haphazardly thrown into a ponytail.
“Are you OK?” I asked her, and put my hand on her arm.
“I’m fine. Stop acting like a freak,” she said, and walked over to the couch and threw herself down on it.
“She doesn’t feel well today,” my mom whispered in my ear.
Right. Got it. The night before Thanksgiving is usually one of the biggest nights of the year to go out, thanks to all the college students being home from school. She’s totally hungover, I thought. Again.
“Hey, guys! Happy Thanksgiving!” Jake said as he walked into the living room. My parents stood up to hug him as Sam grunted from the couch.
I walked into the kitchen, poured a glass of pop with lots of ice, walked over to Sam, and wordlessly handed it to her. She looked surprised but accepted my offering like a dying man in the desert.
The doorbell rang and I walked to the front door and opened the door.
“Hey!” I said to Mark and Casey. “How’s it going, guys?” I said, and gestured for them to come inside. “Casey, you look beautiful!” I said to her.
“Thanks, Clare, your house is amazing. God, I hope I can afford a house like this someday.” She beamed at me.
“Mark, if you guys break up, we’re keeping her. You can find a new family,” I said to him.
“That doesn’t surprise me,” he said.
“You guys hungover, too?” I said to them as we walked into the living room.
“Dying,” Casey whispered to me.
I pointed to Sam’s soft drink and nodded at her. “You’re not the only one.”
“What can I do?” my mom said.
“Help me baste the turkey again,” I said, and we walked into the kitchen.
My mom opened the oven door and checked the turkey.
“Hey, Mom, there’s something I want to tell you,” I said.
She stopped, turkey baster in hand. “Are you pregnant again?”
“WHAT? NO! Are you kidding me?” I said to her.
“Just checking.” She smiled at me.
“I wanted to tell you that I’m planning this fundraiser thing. With Elise. For breast cancer. It’s a holiday luncheon and fashion show. We’re still figuring everything out, but I wanted to tell you since you’re kind of the reason I’m doing it.”
She closed the oven door and walked over to me. She set the turkey baster down on the kitchen island, put her hands on my shoulders, and drew me tightly to her.
“I love you,” she whispered to me.
“I love you, too,” I whispered back. After a few seconds I said, “OK, Mom, um, I have to warm up the sweet potatoes.”
She released me and put her hands on my cheeks. I could see how sunken in her cheeks were and the wiry hairs sticking out from her thinning hairline. “I’m so proud of you,” she said, and kissed me on the forehead.
“Thanks,” I said quickly. Not wanting to blubber all over the corn pudding, I quickly switched gears. “So, Casey and Mark, huh?”
“I know. I think this is the longest he’s ever dated someone. It’s the only one he’s ever brought to a holiday, anyway. I think this one might be the One,” she said.
“I know! Scary, right? And she still appears to be somewhat normal,” I said, and shook my head.
As I folded the sweet potatoes over in the dish, my mom said, “So, still wondering if you can have it all as a working mom?”
I smiled, not looking up from the orange glob of sweet potatoes in front of me. “Mom, I don’t think anyone can have it all.” I turned back to her and raised my eyebrows. “You taught us that we could, but I don’t think it’s possible. At least until our definition of ‘all’ changes to accommodate reality.”
My mom sighed and walked over. She put her arm around my shoulders. “I just want you to be happy. Whatever your ‘all’ includes. My choices don’t have to be yours.”
I set the dish down on a trivet. “I know. I’m just starting to figure that out.”
The turkey basted and the sweet potatoes ready, I went upstairs and woke up Sara and brought her downstairs. Casey fawned all over her and insisted on holding her, but Sara wanted to crawl and romp around the room. My mom and I set the dinner table while Casey and Jake watched Sara. Mark and my dad brought the food from the kitchen to the dining room. And Sam lay on the couch and nursed her hangover.
We all sat down at the table, Sara in her high chair next to me, happily squishing mashed potatoes with her fingers.
“So, you guys still happy with Sara’s day-care?” my dad asked.
Jake and I nodded. “They’re great,” I said. It’s true. No matter what decision I make, Sara’s day-care had been one of my best choices.
“That reminds me!” Mark clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “Hey, Mom, what was the name of the babysitter we had who smoked in her car all the time?” he called down the table. “I was telling Casey the story and couldn’t remember her name.”
“Sylvana! It was Sylvana!” I gleefully exclaimed. “Are we telling old babysitter stories?” I clapped my hands.
“No, no. Please don’t,” my mom said, and put her head down on the table.
“Yes! Yes! How about the woman who drove on the sidewalk one time and almost killed our neighbor’s dog?” I chimed in.
“Or the one who used to take naps in Mom and Dad’s bed?” Mark called out.
“Guys, stop. You know this drives me nuts. Not in front of Casey,” my mom moaned.
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Finnegan. I had a babysitter once who locked me in my room while she had a keg party in my parents’ backyard.” Casey laughed.
“All right, guys, enough,” my dad said, his eyes twinkling.
“Or how about that lady who thought you were epileptic because you threw such a horrible tantrum she thought you were having a seizure?” I said to Mark.
“Do I have to play the cancer card again?” my mom said. “Drop it. Sam, pass the stuffing.”
We all fell silent.
“Sam?” she said.
Sam was still staring into space.
“SAM!” Jake said.
“What? Jeez, I’m not deaf, OK?” she said as she slid the stuffing over to my mom.
“I don’t even want to know what you did last night, Sam, to produce a hangover this ep
ic,” Jake said, and poked her in the ribs.
“Sam, are you hungover?” my mom said to her.
“Nice job. Make it more fawkward, why don’t you?” Sam spit out to Jake, who laughed in response.
“What the hell—,” my dad said and peeked under the table.
“What?” Jake said.
“Clare, your cat is smashing his face against Sam’s purse,” he said.
“Oh, is it pink?” I said, and took a sip of wine.
“EW! YES!” Sam shrieked. She reached under the table and ripped her pink Juicy Couture purse away from Butterscotch, who looked stunned. “Your cat is disgusting. Why does he have to lick my purse?”
“Because it’s pink,” I said. “And it has rhinestones. He’s like the Liberace of cats.”
“Liber-who?” Sam said.
“You guys have a lot in common—you both like pink purses, Sex and the City reruns, and sparkly jewelry.” I pointed to Butterscotch’s suede collar, with “Princess” spelled out in sparkly beads. I happily shoveled mashed potatoes into my mouth, proud that I’d practically starved myself all week just so I could partake in the gastronomic celebration of the holiday.
“Effing dorks,” she muttered.
After dinner, my mom tried to help clean up. I could see she was exhausted, so I insisted she go home and get in bed. Besides, Sam was snoring away on the couch, having fallen asleep watching a recorded episode of The Hills. Casey helped me clean up a little while Jake put Sara to bed after my parents and Sam left.
“So, things seem to be going well with you guys, huh?” I said to her when we were alone in the kitchen.
“They really are. He’s so great,” she said to me as she scraped a serving dish into the garbage disposal.
I smiled at her. “Well, we’re happy to have you. Mark actually acts like a somewhat normal person around you. It’s nice. We didn’t think he had it in him.”
She laughed. “Not when he’s around his friends.”
“That,” I said to her as I waved around a dirty spoon for emphasis, “will never change.”
“What will never change?” Mark said as he walked into the kitchen.
“You. Being a freak.”
“And to think, I was actually thankful for my family this Thanksgiving,” he said.
“Oh, whatever, go back to the city and drink beer or whatever it is you kids do these days,” I teased.
After I pried dirty plates out of Casey’s hands and sent her and Mark on their way, Jake and I snuggled up on the couch under a wool blanket, lit some candles, heated up some pumpkin pie, and watched the news. Jake started snoring almost immediately, so I poked him and we went upstairs to bed.
My feet are killing me, my stomach feels like it’s going to explode and has bloated to the size of Argentina. The turkey hangover is starting to fog my brain, but I did it.
I pulled it off. I am the Queen of Thanksgiving.
Monday, December 1
Time for the turkey haze to dissipate.
I need to work on my review for Hip Parent magazine. My first product is the Diaper King. The Diaper King is one of those trash can doodads that holds dirty diapers in a closed environment, apparently reducing the smell.
I own one—I’ve just never used it. Because a regular garbage can works awesome, too. And it doesn’t take instructions to figure out.
The Diaper King, along with several “Tummy Time” play mats, sits in Sara’s room, unused. The funny part is these were our “must have” items when we registered. I actually researched the different brands of diaper disposal systems, trawled message boards for advice, and scoped out the products in-store before committing to the Diaper King and putting it on my registry.
And when we received it at our shower, I unwrapped it and set it down in Sara’s room next to her changing table. Where it still sits. Never having been opened.
I fully intended to use it, until a huge ten-page booklet of instructions plummeted out of the box. They weren’t the easiest things to understand; they read like stereo instructions, so I threw the book in a drawer, figuring I’d learn how to use it later.
Well, then Sara was born and exhaustion prevented me from reading any words longer than five letters. And when we moved, Jake and I pitched most of the stuff from our drawers, so … yeah. Then one day, I sat down and read the instructions on the can and discovered you need to place a garbage bag in it and that seemed really hard….
I’m going to call Reese and ask her what to do. She always knows this stuff.
8:35 P.M.
Reese: Wait. You’ve never used it? So you’ve never emptied it? Clare, I put one of Brendan’s diapers in there like two months ago.
Me: Aha! That’s where the smell has been coming from.
12:35 A.M.
Finally managed to throw together a review. After calling around to everyone I know who has kids and finding not a single person who used theirs and/or figured out how it works, can’t say I can recommend it.
My first review is done.
Golf claps for Clare.
Wednesday, December 3
My review high lasted two days.
Today was officially The Day When I Almost Had a Nervous Breakdown. And to be honest, I kind of wish I did have a nervous breakdown, because I would be in some nice mental institution right now instead of sitting behind my desk, listening to Mule Face eat Parmesan-crusted kettle chips at ten in the morning.
Sara didn’t sleep well at all last night. She probably sensed that it would be a great time to wake up every hour, since Jake is out of town until tonight at a tech conference. She woke up at 12:00 a.m., 1:30 a.m., 2:45 a.m., 3:15 a.m., and 4:46 a.m., at which point I just brought her into bed with me and prayed she’d lie down on Jake’s side of the bed and sleep.
Right.
She crawled all over my bed, under the covers, and pulled my hair a few times until I gave up, got up, and made some coffee around 5:15 a.m. As I gave her a bottle, I vaguely recalled the days when 5:15 a.m. was more of a bedtime than anything. I think it was like twenty years ago or something. I’ve almost completely forgotten what it was like to stay up past midnight, so it must’ve been decades ago.
Sara passed out for an hour after she ate, allowing me the fleeting luxury to take a shower, blow-dry my hair, and put on makeup. It was like I was on vacation. Except right after I put the last coat of mascara on and bent down to wash my hands, I felt my back wrench. Not just wrench but spasm. It convulsed so hard, I collapsed on my bathroom floor, sweating. I knew exactly what I’d done—right after I had Sara, I stood up too quickly while holding her and I pulled my back. Dr. Clarke said it was due to all the pregnancy hormones, which make joints loose, still hanging around in my body. I said it was due to God hating me.
Thankfully, I saved some of the fabulous drugs from after Sara’s delivery, so I managed to crawl over to my vanity drawer and pop a couple of narcotic painkillers. I laid on my bathroom floor and waited for them to kick in as I heard Sara babbling in her crib, giving the State of the Cradle address to her teddy bear. After fifteen minutes, my pain was more bearable, so I gingerly picked up my purse and hobbled into Sara’s room to get her ready for day-care.
Getting her out of the crib provided somewhat of a challenge, since I couldn’t fully lift her. So, I kind of slid her up the side of the crib, pressed her against the outside of it, and slid her down. It would’ve been much easier had she not been kicking, screaming, and flailing the entire time like a skydiver whose parachute never opened. After that, I tried to entice her to crawl her way to the front door by waving toys in front of her (yes, I realize I was treating her like a dog), but she sat on the floor in front of her crib and stared at me, openmouthed. So, I was forced to half-carry, half-drag her across the carpet to the front door. Cue the flailing and screaming again.
After about a half hour of sweating, cursing, and negotiating, I got her outside and into her car seat. I buckled her in, shut the door, and wobbled over to the driver’s side.
I pulled the handle. It released, but the door didn’t open. Fear shot through me as I tried it again. My hands started shaking and I peered into the car. Where I saw my keys. In the ignition. Which would explain why the car was running. I also saw my purse, cell phone, and house keys. Not to mention my daughter. Brilliant move!
Panicking, I froze. My options were: walk over to Psycho Bitch’s house to use the phone and call a locksmith or walk over to my other neighbor’s house, the one whom I’ve never met and could be a serial killer. Since I’m pretty sure that Psycho Bitch stole my US Weekly last week, I figured I’d roll the dice and lumbered over to Serial Killer’s house.
I rang the doorbell, still half hunched over, near tears.
A young woman in her thirties with a baby on her hip answered the door.
“Yes?” She smiled at me.
“OhmyGodIlockedmykeysinmycarandmybabyisinitandmypurseandcellphoneandmyhusbandisgoneandI’mClareandIlivenextdoor,” I blurted out.
“What?” she said.
I burst into tears and tried to tell her what happened. It didn’t help I started manically laughing in the middle of the story. Finally, I got the story out, and the very nice woman with the baby, whose name is Gina, let me use her phone to call a locksmith. I stood outside in the subzero temperatures next to the car so I could make sure Sara was OK. I also formed a plan of what I could use to break the car window should Sara start choking or something.
Fifteen minutes later, the locksmith showed up and unlocked the car. I flung open the door, at least tried to fling open the door in my near-crippled state, and scooped up a sleeping Sara. She opened her eyes, looked at me like, What? and then laid her head back down on my shoulder and fell asleep again.
I dropped her off at day-care an hour late and lumbered into work, crouched over like a cripple. Just as I was about to click on the PDF of the breast cancer fundraiser the graphic designer sent, Mule Face walked by and called me Quasimodo. I debated calling the local police department with an anonymous tip that a very large woman wearing a velour pantsuit in my office might possibly be aiding terrorists.
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