Sweat & Sparkle

I woke up this morning, not thinking much about what day it is, until I paused to glance sleepily at the wall calendar. I hadn’t written anything down for the day, but “December 4” instantly struck me as familiar.

Nine years ago today, my husband and I finally closed on a cute, little house that we had discovered months before. The first time my husband and I visited the house together, we just knew. Both of us really liked it, and we were already picturing ourselves there, decorating the kids’ rooms in our heads, mentally planting flowers in the yard.

As luck would have it, the seller had some issues, then the bank had delays, and we went from moving in around Halloween, to dreaming of Thanksgiving in our new home, to wondering if we would be unpacked by Christmas (or ever)! But then the realtor called and let us know that closing was officially scheduled, and we were nervous and excited at the same time. It was finally happening.

My husband already had one truckload piled up that morning before closing, and as soon as we had the keys, we giddily drove over to our new home. One of the first items we moved in was the heavy dining room table, which slipped and smacked my leg. I was rewarded with a large bruise, but we still managed to haul every single box, every piece of furniture, into our new house all by ourselves.

I hung the Christmas wreath on the front door and set up a few picture frames on our new fireplace mantel, to feel somewhat settled in with decorations. I still have the picture I took of our front door that first night, so proud that I was ready to burst. This was ours. This was home.

We love our home, and it means so much to us that we earned this together. All the years in a tiny apartment, we put money away for our down payment, made sure we had savings for furniture, everything we would need to get started in a new home. Each day, each moment, each decision over those years paid off for us that day.

Nine years later, I still get happy when I turn down our street after work, and nothing is quite like pulling into our driveway, walking through that front door into our little sanctuary. It still excites me to come home. I hope it always does.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Busy Week

Every weekend, I sit down with my planner and map out the upcoming week. Last night, I scribbled away, noting all the events, listing all my to-do activities. One thing is for sure: this is going to be a busy week!

I started baking over the weekend, not for Thanksgiving, just because I was excited and wanted to make something. My co-workers are happy for the sweets I brought them today.

I have my recipes printed for the Thanksgiving desserts, since I can’t stand trying to follow a recipe on a phone or tablet. Give me good, old-fashioned paper that gets flour and sugar scattered across the page, something I can brush off, file away, and pull out again next year like an old friend.

Last year at this time, I was hiking a mountain in North Carolina to stand triumphantly, huffing and puffing, at the top of a waterfall with my husband. I was still battling bronchitis at the time, so I consider it an extra special victory that I made it to the top with a pulse. We’re not talking neat, packed-down, well-traveled paths here. We’re talking steep, grab-a-rock-and-haul-yourself-up kind of hiking.

No mountain trails or waterfalls this year, but I am still excited. This week is going to fly by, with so much to do and so much to prepare. Next year, when I look back at this Thanksgiving, I wonder: what will I remember, with a smile, and possibly write about?

Remembering

This quote made me stop today and think about all the Thanksgivings I have celebrated already, leading up to this year.

I remember the house smelling delicious as my mom cooked when I was little, and how she would call me conspiratorially into the kitchen as soon as the turkey came out of the oven so she could slice off a thin piece of that heavenly, crispy skin for me. I don’t think anything has ever tasted so good as that first bite, my mom smiling as I enjoyed it and let her know how good it was.

I remember my first Thanksgiving away from home, my first year of college, when a young lady across the hall in my dorm begged me to help her make the holiday feast for a nearby home for adults with disabilities. (She was a special education major, and I think she volunteered in class but ended up the only one actually doing it.) I told her I had never cooked a Thanksgiving meal before, and neither had she, so we figured it out together, bright and early that Thanksgiving morning. I swear we checked that poor turkey every 15 minutes for hours, worried we were going to burn it to a crisp. The house staff invited us to stay to eat the meal with them, and it was a pleasant surprise that everything was not only edible, but pretty damn good.

I remember one of my first Thanksgivings with my husband and the kids. My mom came to visit, and she pretended to pray loudly about my husband’s driving when we picked her up from the airport. I laughed as my husband and my mom picked on each other the whole ride home. My husband even pulled into the driveway of an abandoned, crumbling house as a prank, pretending that was our house, and my mom had a fit. He burst out laughing at her reaction. We still joke about it when we occasionally drive by that old, abandoned house that somehow, miraculously, is still standing.

After my mom couldn’t get around easily anymore, I remember so many airport layovers, standing in line for rental cars, excited to see my brothers at her house for Thanksgiving. My brothers and I scattered after graduation, and sometimes it was years in between those visits with them. (Looking back, it was too many years. Way too many.)

Two years ago, I had already reserved a car and had my trip planned to head to my mom’s again for Thanksgiving, this time with my husband, and she was excited that both of us were coming. She was making a list of things she needed help with around the house, and she kept double-checking with me, making sure we were definitely coming. I told her yes, it’s all booked. She died two months before Thanksgiving, and I will always feel like I missed out on just one more Thanksgiving there, one more visit, one more hug, one more laugh while she and my husband picked on each other. With my brothers there, it would have been even louder, with even more joking and laughing. It hurts to have missed out on it.

Last year, I met up with all three of my brothers in the mountains for Thanksgiving, with my husband, and my niece and nephew were there as well. I loved every minute of it. Losing my mom makes me want to grasp onto my brothers and maybe make up for some of the time we have lost, being so far away from each other. I have pictures from that trip all over my desk at work. It meant a lot to me. I like to think our mom was able to be there with us in some way, and it would make her happy to know we spent that Thanksgiving together.

And this year? I printed a few recipes today for different desserts I want to make. After spending so many Thanksgivings with my mom, I struggle a bit with this holiday. It’s still one of my favorite holidays, but it’s bittersweet now. I am still trying to figure out new traditions and new ways to celebrate.

I am grateful for each Thanksgiving of my past, and I am grateful for where I am today. I am thankful to spend this holiday with my husband, in the home that we love. I don’t take any of our days together for granted. For everything that led me to where I am now…for every twist and turn that placed him and me together…I am exceptionally grateful.