Dibs on Second Thanksgiving

Second Thanksgiving started out reasonably well. I suppose I need to pause, before I have even gotten into the meat of my story to explain what I mean, for those of you limited to a mere one Thanksgiving. Because my wife and I live just minutes from both of our parents, two doors down from my in-laws, and each want to have a Thanksgiving meal with us and we've never braved the tricky waters of alternating years, or denying one or the other of this obvious pleasure, each year at the end of November we get both Thanksgiving and Second Thanksgiving. This Second Thanksgiving is with my family the following Saturday, which sometimes allows my Aunt Cy and Uncle Mike attend, although this year it was just us. We were having manicotti, one of my favorites, I brought the supplies for herb bread, Shelly had made a chocolate eclair cake. Her choice for a dessert was largely driven by my Dad, as his birthday fell between the two Thanksgivings and it seemed she should make something he would like. This very nearly got messed up by Shelby, who in a matter of fact fashion stated G paw (as she sometime calls him) likes banana cake. It was her mother's confused look and question, "he does?" that broke her and saved the day. It turns out she just wanted banana cake and where G paw is concerned, the ethics are fuzzy. So, we made it there banana cake free and ready to celebrate.

We arrived while my Dad was at work, although he would be there soon. Savannah and I worked on the herb bread, Shelby and my Mom stuffed the noodles, the others got the table ready and relaxed. We talked about the shopping trips my Mom had taken the girls on, part of the pre-Christmas tradition, about First Thanksgiving and how the Christmases would be handled this year. My Dad arrived with 40 minutes left on the oven timer.

The meal was very good, but not hugely eventful. After the seating assignments were given, that is. The girls argue about who well set beside Grandma, G maw Shelby would say, some also want to sit by Grandpa. None argue to sit by me. We talked about Thanksgiving trivia, in which I mangled the names of both the Captain of the Mayflower and other ship which was meant to take the journey. Christopher Jones and Speedwell, if you are interested.

It was when we retired to the living room that things got interesting and awkward.

My parents have a menagerie of stuffed, musical, dancing animals which reside on the top of their entertainment center. The kids love to press the various buttons, filling the room with a chaos of movement and sound which would only end when one of the adults, their voice trembling which teetering sanity, puts an end to it. "Quit!" Before the forgone cycle of events got rolling, my Mom thought she would cycle the animals, putting away the non-seasonal, soft eyed, madness inducers for their scarf wearing, but equally diabolical counterparts. A sane person can last no longer against a hip wiggling, singing Santa than the can an high stepping, whistle ostrich.

One of the new additions to the room, was a set of caroling barnyard animals. Shelby sat on the floor being serenaded for a few minutes, letting the music penetrate her soul. Perhaps it was the maddening effect, which we assumed she was immune to, perhaps it was just the way her mind works. What ever it was, it was then she looked to my Dad and said, "When you're dead, can I have this." I don't know what happens in a normal family when these sorts of things happen, as you can see from the above description I have no experience with a normal family. I don't even know if that kind of question would be asked in a normal family. When happens in my family is this, the animals stop singing carols, because a new game starts, the adults are either shocked or laughing with shock and the kids start running around the house pointing at various items shouting dibs.

Several items cross my mind, as my kids place fast and loose with the mortality of their grandparents. First is that growing feeling of horror. Then there is the feeling of guilt when I realize what I'm most horrified by is the thought of all those items being "claimed" clogging the doorways of my house, rather then my kids turning Thanksgiving, sorry Second Thanksgiving, into a festival of the gimmes. Then, as if to forge a defense, I think how much Justin and his kids are missing out on, so I begin to consider the shipping cost to send them their heavily prorated portion. Probably a worthwhile cost.

I don't say any of these things. What I do say is this, "We need to have an agreement that you don't die until Shelby has her own place, so that all of the items she is claiming today, can go to her place instead of mine." On one hand you might consider that tacky, on the other hand you might note how I successfully negotiated my parents prolonged survival, and protected my home from an avalanche of crazy. I suppose that depends on the normality of your home.