Thick and Chunky.

I grew up on the DEW line. Or maybe I grew up north of the DEW line. I’m not entirely sure, but whatever the latitude and longitude of it, distant and early warnings have never done me any favors. Neither have the ones up close and personal. Like the whole face-meets-concrete episode. Or that sleeping-beside-dead-husband thing.  

Or the thick-chunky-and-red-hued ooze inching its way across my floor. For the second time.

We are knocking on midnight and the four little creatures that have brought smiles, laughter and contentment to an afternoon hard won have suddenly turned my floor into a scene from the Exorcist.

First one. And then another.

Which has me eyeballing the other two for any signs of suspicious intestinal movement. Mentally reviewing the verbal contract I made to sleep in the middle. Calculating how much saran wrap is needed to cover the carpet they will be sleeping on. And effectively putting an end to the year-long gastronomical fascination I have had with tomato soup.

And any thoughts I might have had regarding cheese curds.

And yet the repulsive and revolting mess that four bath towels have not yet brought under control is oddly comforting. Not because it is seeping into the grout and activating stomach muscles that have been happily dormant since the last diaper exited the building, but because this simple moment means more than all of the moments in a day filled with moments.

Even if Linda Blair’s leftovers are all over my floor.

Roasted by Reality.

A splash of rum. An ample roast.

It sounded divine. Our first post-nuptials holiday in a house we dreamed or and painstakingly designed, and we were determined to do things our way. Our dining table was officially a turkey-free table, without a trace of jellied cranberry to be found.

And that was the last time I cooked Thanksgiving dinner.

Not because I can’t cook a roast, and not because my turkeys don’t melt off the bone. Because Thanksgiving will always be the day when I gave thanks that eyebrows and eyelashes grow back and that the smell of charred hair does indeed fade along with the rosy evidence across cheekbones and the bridge of one’s nose.

But 10 years later I am being forced to revisit the ghosts of Thanksgiving past, because my son is determined to have a feast worthy of the pilgrims and their Native American guests. A bounty of corn. Fresh-baked bread. Mouthwatering mashed potatoes. Gravy worth wallowing in. Pumpkin pie. Stuffing. And a turkey. That must be cooked in an oven.

By me.

Thanksgiving has never been our holiday of choice, and for a decade it was one of the most important weekends of my career. Looking back on resolutions made 11 months earlier and a vow to change habits that no longer fit, comes the promise of new ones and contentment in the simple fact that it is nearly noon and I am still in my pajamas.

But if I know anything, it is this. Painful memories aren’t forgotten – they simply sting less with time. Staring at the pimply flesh of the bird I am about to violate with spoonfuls of stuffing my children will taste and promptly disavow, I also know this.

He’s already laughing. Wherever he is.

Screw the Turkey. And the Stuffing.

My childhood didn’t include extended family descending like biblical locusts for a day of gluttony, and I’ve never taken part in a Turkey Bowl. The thought of cranberry jelly oozing through my teeth sends a shiver up my spine, and I could outlast Ghandi if bean casserole was the only thing left on earth to eat. For me, Thanksgiving was just one of those no-school-no-work-lots-of-food days.

And then I met my husband.

Who also viewed Thanksgiving as one of those no-school-no-work-lots-of-food-extra-hours-on-my-bicycle days. The first couple of years, no turkey came within a mile of our kitchen. We slept in late, went to bed early and watched football while we snacked on snack-y things and drank out of mason jars.

As soon as the vows were spoken our respective families began circling and in a pre-emptive strike before our offspring became the spoils of war, we laid out our holiday battle strategy. Canadian Thanksgiving for one. American Thankgsiving for the other. Our house for Christmas.

For 10 years we stood our ground, even as the different camps subtly campaigned for changes. Stuffing our toddling son and barely born daughter into car seats, we suffered through tantrums and screaming and pleasantries. We held our tempers as my figure received its annual evaluation, grit our teeth as cousins bullied cousins, and suffered the digestive insults of a mountain of fat and butter. And we fell into bed giving thanks that Thanksgiving was over.

And then my husband died.

Exactly one month later I made the trek to his family’s house. Alone save two screaming children, I forced turkey into a digestive track that recoiled against sustenance at a table where he loomed unspoken. A year later, resigned to the fact that everything had changed but refusing to accept that it had, the air was uncomfortable as serving spoons clinked and unspoken questions went unanswered. Another year passed and as turkeys around the nation ran for cover, passive acceptance became fiery anger as another Thanksgiving loomed on the horizon. He was gone but nothing had changed.

And with one scoop of buttery mashed potatoes, everything did.

This year there will be snack-y things and Turkey Trots, new places and snow falling. The air will be filled with laughter, not silence. We’ll throw footballs and ride bikes, and we’ll drink hot chocolate as we deck the halls. We’ll remember stories of Thanksgivings past, and we’ll feast on the things we like. 

Unlike last year, when my relationship status was served up for discussion alongside squishy cranberry jelly. Neither of which should be on the menu.

Snap Peas.

“This is your center, and this is your quarterback. Who snaps the ball and passes it?”

“The knife?”

It’s come to this – football analogies to explain the finer points of wielding cutlery. Because I am simply out of ideas. And because if I have to crawl under the table to pick up one more kernel of corn or flake of fish the resident chef is going on strike. Or we’re moving the kitchen table outside. 

It’s not that my children belong in a cave. They’re just as messy and carefree as anyone else’s kids. But right at that point when table manners and nutritional choices are instilled, our lives went hurtling off the smooth little track we had been riding along with things like routines and table manners. By the time I emerged from the haze I had sunken beneath and friends and family had taken their leave, the damage was done. The kitchen was no longer the center of our home and our family. 

It was ground zero.

In the morning it was cold and empty and at night it was heated with anger and frustration. It wasn’t just because he was gone. It was because it was his domain, relinquished to me only for the purposes of cleaning and cookie baking. When he was here, I could happily hand over the spatula to someone who truly liked using it. Once he was gone, I didn't dislike being thrust into hell’s kitchen.

I loathed it.

Months after he was gone I rushed through the dinner hour, brushing aside etiquette and the food pyramid in favor of ease and efficiency. As I rushed them through their adequately balanced meals, I avoided the table and raced through the dishes. 

Somewhere after the first year had passed I cautiously took my place, returning to what was left of the family dinner table as familiar conversations, awkward and disjointed, returned. As the second year ran its course, culinary irritation was replaced with comfortable acceptance.

I discovered utensils I didn’t know we owned and vegetables I didn’t know I liked. I learned to navigate my daughter’s eclectic food allergies and adventures were taken as they learned to love new tastes. Bananas and apples were usurped by raspberries and pomegranates, and freshly cooked meats and exotic rices replaced nuggets and fries. As time went on, the kitchen was filled more with the sound of sauté than the microwave’s incessant beeping.

But watching her march the peas down the field, knife snapping them to fork, I know that the kitchen will never really be my domain.

Because even now, there’s football at the dinner table.

Hand in Hand.

“I had none cards today. And none cards all week! Can we go to the store right NOW?!”

She’s been home for all of five minutes and has been waiting all week for this moment. Secretly, so have I. Ahead of us is an afternoon of girl time filled with glitter and delicious smells, sparkly things and cookie breaks. An afternoon filled with the warmth of her hand in mine and the sound of her laughter. 

For years, I’ve watched from a quiet distance as women talk about the afternoons they spend with their daughters. Pedicures and manicures, movies, shopping and dance classes – notches in the belt of motherhood that left me ambivalent, irritated and wistful.

Just when life had settled and she had aged enough, the bottom fell out. While mothers around us celebrated the mother-daughter bond with definitively female pursuits, our days were filled with the pain of rebuilding our broken world. Things that had once come easily became insurmountable challenges and simple pleasures were forgotten in the melee. Instead, we bonded over something far greater. Our bond was one of loss and survival, strength and resilience.

While some urged us forward too far and too fast, I discovered how deeply a mother’s instinct runs and how strong we both were. Where some saw childish anger, I saw something deeper. Where some laughed off teasing as just childish antics, I saw how deeply and permanently their words cut. Where some saw willfulness, I saw determination and a future filled with possibility. Where some saw too many tears, I saw a little girl who didn’t understand why he wouldn’t be there to paint her toes after bath time.

I see a willful little girl determined to live life on her terms.

Watching her eyes sparkle, I do not regret the pedicures and shopping trips missed. I do not regret the late night tears and stories in the dark. I do not regret the years I lost in my own life to repair the foundation of hers. Because we are walking through each new door hand in hand.

Even when those hands are Snickerdoodle sticky.

Spilled Milk.

“Anyone need a little milk in their coffee?”

If I hadn’t been naked from the waist up, cold, wet and considering what might be more painful – carving the two mountains off my chest or manually downsizing them – I would have gone straight through the canvas wall separating me from my jocular husband and his motley audience as they gathered around the drowsy morning camp fire and the lonely, charred coffee pot.

The mercury had barely hovered above single digits overnight and the camper we had borrowed was powerless, which meant no heat and no light, and we were perched on the top of a mountain six hours from home. Our son was not yet three months old and I was a new mother struggling to make peace with an unfamiliar body and fighting the little fears and panic that each new mother experiences. Three days earlier the little being that changed my very existence went on a dine-around. 

And then he decided he had spent enough time bellying up to the bar.

Feeding my son was not the magical experience I had expected it would be. Not at first. We struggled together, an exhausted blur of syringe feedings and painful sessions with lactation consultants that left us both in tears and my husband helpless. And suddenly with one clip, we were both freed and his hunger quickly outpaced the food supply long before he had a vested interest in what was on the grocery list. Just like that my perky Bs exploded into obnoxious Ds.  

I could have fed Africa. The entire continent.

Our freezer was filled with individual servings. Two fridge shelves of fresh meals. After my son had his half hour, the pump had me for another 15. I was trapped in a chair for 45 minutes, every two hours. And if I showed up late for an appointment, my bounty was less beautiful than it was ballistic. That my tiny little body was the eternal well was a source of endless amusement for my husband, a source of endless joy, pain and frustration for me.

Standing there, tears of frustration and pain running down my face and milk streaming down my body, the expensive machine that I couldn’t stand the sight or sound of was suddenly the only thing I wanted. But we were camping, which means drip drying and fire-smoked meals, ball caps and blackened tea kettles, sharpened twigs for roasting and mounds of blankets.

Seven years later, I am standing in my bedroom sorting through shoes and shampoos, sweaters and stuffed animals, preparing for three of us to escape into the mountains again. Without him but with other women and children who do not know each other yet all share a common bond.

Hairdryers.

O Oreo, Oreo, Wherefore Art My Willpower?

There are 28 of them. Fourteen tuxedoed-and-pink-banded pairs in three perfect lines. 150 calories in each pair. 2,100 for all 28. I would need to stop eating for a few days. And run about 20 miles. 

Without stopping.

But it’s hot enough to fry an egg on the sidewalk and no matter how I spin the math, I can’t sugarcoat the fact that it is 10 a.m. and the box of Berry Burst Oreos meant for my children’s lunches is now at risk of becoming mine. What started out as a day of productivity has slid right off the rails and these messy moments inevitably take place right after an expensive trip to the grocery store. So, even if I am able to fend off the Oreos, there’s no guarantee that the Dulce de Leche in the freezer and the cupcake-flavored Goldfish crackers in the pantry are safe.

Even the half-eaten oatmeal cookie my daughter stashed in the fridge “for later” looks good right now.

I’ve been told I am tenacious – I prefer to see that as an advantage rather than a flaw. The bigger the challenge and the harder the task, the more motivated I am. (There are exceptions of course. Like the whole losing-my-husband thing. That was more like piranhas-could-tear-the-flesh-from-my-bones-and-I-would-not-have-noticed devastating.) This tiny little frame is remarkably strong and resilient, driven by stubborn practicality and willfulness. And if you’ve been following along, you know that my capacity for life’s crap has been vigorously road tested. So, just to recap: I don’t give up without a fight, no matter how bad the odds look.

Unless your most appealing attributes can be described with words like “confection,” “frosted” and “melt in your mouth.”

You know those people that feel the tension leave as a five-star resort and spa masseuse digs it out of their backs? Or the people that attack the gym to sweat it out? Those yoga-types that sit like little buddhas with their palms up and forefinger and thumb joined in some sort of mental cleanse? Robert De Niro in “Anger Management”?

I’m not one of those.

I turn to my friends when tension builds, and I’ve never met a carb I can’t make friends with. And with one little phone call, my well-intentioned day has dissolved into a pool of scattered thoughts, the muscles between my shoulders and my neck have twisted into fiery knots, and I’ve had visions of sugar plums dancing in my head.

I should probably start lacing up those running shoes right now. Because when I pick my daughter up at summer camp today, she’ll be bringing a chocolate pizza home with her.