It's a day for Tom & Jerry on the TV, for toys being picked up and put away, for Christmas jazz to play constant. It's for doing laundry and for cleaning those sticky spots off the kitchen floor and getting out the toilet bowl scrubber and doing what must be done after a week of guests in the house.
Thanksgiving was incredible this year.
I'm not sure I've ever had my family come for this particular holiday. We had almost 20 around the table, and the whole day sparkled like a drop of dew in the sun. (Or maybe like a pat of butter melting on a homemade roll; that's probably more apropos.) We laughed and played games and ate ourselves sick. And then we ate some more. Because that's what we do.
And the cousins. My goodness. All the kids are getting old enough to play together now, and watching their relationships unfurl like a bud in the spring delighted me to no end. They kept disappearing together, to play puppies in a bedroom or to have a Nerf gun battle in the basement. I didn't grow up with cousins around, so to watch my kids form real friendships with my sister's kids is a joy new to me.
But now the party is over. The last of the house guests left this morning, and just in time, because the chaos is right up to my chin.
I am the kind of person who loves to celebrate and be with my people and stay up late talking and eat just one more piece of pie. But after a few days of that, I am also the kind of person who craves routine and quiet and the simple peace of folding clothes still warm from the dryer. I relish both flavors of life.
So today, I will turn on every light in the house, and I will go room to room, restoring order. I will vacuum up the dog hair and the stray crumbs, and I will bet money I will find something belonging to my sister's family tucked under a bed or behind a cushion. I will wash every towel I own and I will make an extra cup of coffee, and when Kieran takes a nap this afternoon, I will crawl in next to him and revel in the softness of flannel sheets and the stillness of my monkey boy. And when the kids get home from school, we will do homework in a quiet kitchen and eat leftovers for dinner and maybe snuggle around the fireplace, a necessary act when the forecast calls for the season's first dumping of snow.
Today, I will give thanks for the memories made, for the laughter still echoing off the stones and for the glory in the ordinary. I am full, in every way.
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