And then it got crazy.
This is what we had yesterday for Thanksgiving Dinner:
Turkey, with cornbread stuffing
Pickles and olives and cheese and crackers guava paste and cream cheese and
Green bean casserole
Spinach and artichoke heart casserole
Norwegian hot dish casserole
Sweet potato casserole
Chocolate pecan pie
Real whipped cream
We were ten for supper, including Owen. Who took one bite of a turkey leg and pronounced it nasty.
Do you see the problem here?
By the time we sat down to eat, I had been on my feet since eight, mostly. May had been on her feet since the moment she got here. Everyone else had made and helped with things all day.
I went to bed before the cleaning up was done. DO YOU HEAR ME? I WENT TO BED BEFORE THE CLEANING UP WAS DONE!
Because I pretty much thought I was going to die and being in bed would be the appropriate place to do that. Take that whole day, add in the day and days before for the party and getting ready for the party and Owen-care and shopping and the broken washing machine and, and, and...
I just slept for eleven hours.
And the worst? I feel SO guilty that I went to bed before the cleaning up was done and everyone left. May and Matt were still in the kitchen and so was Mr. Moon when I went to bed.
They were cleaning up. They were figuring out how to put the leftovers away and washing dishes. I would have just thrown all the pots and pans and food in the yard. I would have let the wild animals come and eat all of it.
I washed my face. I brushed my teeth. I put on my nightgown. I tried to read for a little while. I couldn't. I turned out the light.
I slept for eleven hours. In a row. Waking up only to feel guilty and then go back to sleep.
Let me remember this next year. Let me put my foot down and say that if people want casseroles, they should make them and enjoy them in July.
I haven't gone to bed before the cleaning up was done since 1988 when I was pregnant with Jessie and went to bed before the EATING was done. I seem to recall that I just laid down under the table and fell asleep but I am pretty sure I didn't actually do it.
I am too old for all of this. Even if the children do more than half of it. I cannot deal with the guilt.
Which is stupid.
But it's the way it is.
The hell to you, you Pilgrims. Coming to this country and making up to the Indians so they'd take pity on your poor little white souls and teach you how to survive and than making a dinner and inviting a few Indians and then stealing all of their land and the hell to you with your Great Feast idea.
The hell to you with your little buckled shoes and your stupid hats and your religious freedom and your sucking up to Squanto and your Plymouth Rock and your Great Feast and your ideas of original sin and GUILT!
And the hell to whoever invented the casserole, too, if you want to know the truth.
Eleven hours of sleep. And Owen's coming soon and boy, do I hope he wants a nap today.
Your faithful correspondent...Ms. Moon