My kitchen is a nightmare that has been cleaned, in part, by other people, dirtied, and partially cleaned again. I watched my dearest friend’s girlfriend hug her and help me put away leftovers. The engineers made sure the outdoor turkey roaster didn’t burn the house down. DP changed out of his pajama pants only after everyone arrived. I did not lose my shit a thousand times.
We call our Thanksgiving dinners Orphan Thanksgiving. It has become a testament to made families. This year members of my blood family were there, but my sisters and I are orphans and are making new traditions. Our dinner made up for at least four different profoundly shitty family situations, and there was gratitude and pie. I did not lose my shit a thousand times.
Leftover Dinner was when everyone got cranky, when my made family showed its cracks. But unlike last year, DP and I did not fight once. We watched the dysfunction, and then watched each other’s back. I like his back. He has broad shoulders, and he cooks like a dream. I lost my shit only slightly.
I am sitting in my kitchen, by the fire, alone for the first time in a week. Instead of making conversation, cleaning something, bringing people food, or solving a problem, I am drinking whiskey, and watching over the dog and the new dog. The new dog is a Christmas present for my sister-in-law and nephews. He is silly and glorious and tiny, and I adore how he carries around the stupid little pink soccer ball in his mouth as if he has won the Dog Lottery, which I suppose he has. I am thankful for the little corner of my Internet and the wood stove, the dogs, and the whiskey that I hid from everyone else.
I hope you have grabbed a little corner of peace for yourself as well, and that your run-ons aren’t quite as bad as mine.