A spontaneous feast

I remember when I used to post several times a week. Do you remember that?

That was back before I was a single parent. Ah well.

I spent the past week preparing the yard for winter, attempting to convince my children it’s too early to start decorating for Christmas, and trying not to read all the posts on the guidebook for pedophiles that Amazon is/is not selling. Because as much as I try to look at the issue dispassionately, I just can’t, because I’m looking at it from within the trenches. I know I haven't spoken much about the criminal investigation, but suffice it to say this hits close to home.  I can’t take the intellectual route and argue that publishing a handbook that gives advice on how to sexually enjoy a child (and avoid the corresponding jail sentence) is in any way a free speech issue when in my mind it’s quite simply aiding and abetting a crime. So I just don’t read the posts anymore.

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The weather was beautiful over the weekend, perfect fall weather. We cooked, we cleaned, we played, we built a fire. The children were in good spirits up until Sunday evening when they fell apart a bit, and this was not completely unexpected. They had a counseling appointment that day and I’ve noticed that after counseling they are sometimes more emotionally raw, their tender spots exposed. Sometimes they regress and talk in baby voices or want to be held, which I’m happy to do. I wish I could protect them from all the disappointments in the world. I can love them and protect them to an extent, but I can’t always shield their hearts.

Here is what I’ve noticed lately. That while I have less time to myself, less time to write, less time for anything, I somehow have more patience for my children. While I used to only half-listen to my children as they chattered on while I attended to chores, I find more and more that I am fully present and engaged with them. Perhaps this is the gift of crisis.

We are spending Thanksgiving with a friend so I am not cooking this year, aside from a dessert. But as I stood at the grocery store on Saturday amidst the displays of cranberry sauce and dressing fixings, I was overcome with the desire to cook. So I decided right then and there I would make a spontaneous Thanksgiving meal for myself and the kids, four days early. And that’s just what we did.

The kids helped me make a pumpkin pie and it was fun. I didn’t care that my daughter didn’t measure the spices exactly. I didn’t care that my son spilled the sugar. We roasted a turkey breast, made stuffing, mashed potatoes, gravy, roasted asparagus, cranberry sauce and rolls. We made a right feast, just the three of us.

As we sat down at the table and my son grabbed the bowl of mashed potatoes, my daughter stopped him and said “Wait! We have to say what we’re thankful for!”

I asked her what she was thankful for and she thought about it and said, “My family and all this food.” I looked at my son and asked him the same thing. “Mashed potatoes!” he said.

I was thankful for that moment, right then, and the gift of these two beautiful souls who bring color to my world and remind me, daily, that I still have a thing or two to learn yet.