Thanksgiving Is a Team Sport (Six Kids, Zero Strategy)
Thanksgiving dinner at Mom's is today, and I have prepared the way I prepare for everything with six kids: snacks in the bag, a backup outfit per small human, and zero illusions that this will go smoothly.
The drive over is the first event of the day. Somebody is already fighting over the middle seat like it's prime real estate. Somebody else asks "are we there yet?" before we've even left the driveway — MY OWN DRIVEWAY. And I sit behind the wheel practicing my deep breaths, because the real holiday magic is not losing your mind before the appetizers.
We arrive. There is a hug line. There are cheeks to kiss. There is a table that seats twelve and a house full of people with opinions about how the kids are doing — "my, they've grown!" Yes. That's what children do. It's the one thing they're consistent at.
Dinner itself is a contact sport. The turkey gets carved. The small ones want the rolls. Someone spills gravy. Someone cries because their plate "touched." And me? I'm cutting meat, refilling cups, and trying to eat my own food before it goes cold, which — with six kids — is like trying to read a book during a tornado. It isn't happening.
And then, the moment I live for: the drive home. Everyone's full. Everyone's sleepy. The car goes quiet for the first time all day, and it is the most beautiful sound I've ever heard. Nobody's fighting. Somebody's already asleep against the window.
We get home. The kids crash. And I step onto the porch with my blanket, the October air doing that crisp thing it does, and my exhale — mommy's magic flowers, nobody needing a single thing from me for a whole evening. Earned. Every last puff.
That's the holiday for me: beautiful chaos, then the porch. Grateful? Exhausting. Wouldn't trade it.
How was your Thanksgiving — smooth sailing or beautiful chaos? Spill.
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