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Health & Fitness

Ma, I Get It Now; Thoughts After Thanksgiving

An aging parent reflects on her Thanksgiving holiday.

Midnight and Thanksgiving 2011 is officially history.

Leaning on the kitchen counter, my body feels it: knees hurt, feet hurt, back hurts worst of all. My husband, already in bed, is no better off.

I sigh inwardly, thinking about how tomorrow night we get to do it all again: haul the turkey up from the basement refrig, pour the sweet stuff on the potatoes that will need to be baked, cook another tray of stuffing, defrost more soup, make more matzo balls. (No, matzo balls aren’t traditional Thanksgiving fare, but in my family they are a requirement for all occasions.) Serve it. Clean up the kitchen afterwards. Of course, there are other meals in between to be prepared, served, cleaned up.

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You’d think we had an army to feed, but it is just the two of us and our son. The food is delicious. It is a dinner fit for a king, and to us, our son, a lovely, hard working young man, still unattached, is a king. We are pleased that he has come to spend this long holiday weekend with the old people. We feel completed and whole because he is home where he belongs.

But the exhaustion and aching body parts have been developing all week. In an attempt to ration our energy, the countdown to Thanksgiving began days ago when we spent hours slow cooking chicken soup. Later in the week we manufactured the stuffing. An odd recipe derived from my mother’s kitchen, it is a family fav that seems to take forever to make. Of course, most of the dinner, including the turkey, had to be cooked today … and then served … and then cleaned up.

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Between cooking all the foods, cleaning was also required. While we love our cats, the abundance of hair they deposit around the house is not the best thing for our son who is allergic. So we vacuum— hard and often – on the days before his arrival.

Searching for a reason for my exhaustion, I wish I could blame my son and say he is excessively demanding; but he isn’t. He is kind and caring and simply wants our family traditions to continue. We want that too.  I wish I could blame my husband, saying he doesn’t help, but I can’t. He works longer and harder than I do.  I realize, sadly and reluctantly, that the blame for how I feel lies with the clock and the calendar. The words, “I am getting too old to do this,” come to mind. My heart wars against them; I refuse to say those words aloud.

Still leaning on the counter, too tired to move, I hear my mother’s voice in years gone by, saying, “I don’t know how much longer I can do this.” Sadly, we never had a particularly warm, loving relationship. Not a happy person, she complained often and I saw her as a drama queen. Like the story of the boy who cried wolf once too often, I could not invest in her words and saw them as just more complaints among many others.

I could not fathom that people are not forever young. A young adult on top of my game, I cooked complex meals on ordinary days. I worked full time and took my work seriously. I picked sour cherries and made jams. I baked and grew vegetables. 

Determined to be a better mother than I felt mine had been, I spent countless hours with my son, listening patiently to his babbling and ultimately to the stories of his school day. I chauffeured him to and from events and lessons, I cleaned up after him, shopped for him, staged happily memorable holidays for him. I read stories to him, watched TV with him, reassured him. I don't regret any of it; I know that is why he is with us this weekend and I am glad for that.

Back then, I seemed to be able to do it all with energy to spare. So when we would arrive at my parents’ home, suitcases and bags of toys in tow, expecting to be served our favorite foods and cleaned up after, I was irritated that my mother professed that it was all too much for her. 

My mother has been gone for almost ten years now. I wonder if she can hear my thoughts.  "Ma, I get it now," I sadly think, as I lean on the kitchen counter, too tired to move. But I will never say it out loud.

 

 

 

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