Holidays at the Half-Way Mark

There was a time that I could not have imagined myself saying this, but I'm a holiday person. I have a love-hate relationship with it, but as I get on in years, I seem to focus more on the things I love about holidays than those I don't like so much.

It's two days until Thanksgiving, and we're having my mother whom I will enjoy when she's here, but anticipating the logistics of putting her up--my mother, who is past eighty now and can't climb stairs to the bedroom and will need to have a bed made up on the sofa at an hour when most of my household is still romping and running about--is something I just don't think I'll dwell on this morning. I won't worry about the six month old border collie puppy who might trip her on the way to the bathroom or think about the way she belches at the table and laughs or wonder if she'll remember to pack her Depends or if she'll be washing her underthings in the common bathroom downstairs (yes, I have limited patience with the challenges and trappings of old age--perhaps in protest to the ones that have visited me early--and I'm not very proud of it). I'm thinking instead of the meal I'll cook and the joy it will bring to the single friend we have every year (this will be the fourth he's sat at our board). I'm thinking of the lazy way we'll all linger at the table, unlike how our weeknight dinners have evolved into a mad stuff and dash, kids clearing condiments while someone else is still chewing so that they can get on with their important teenage pursuits. I miss that which was a nightly occurrence for such a long time, and the holidays give me back those little pleasures.

But something will have changed this year, and I have yet to embrace it. My hands aren't working as well as I'd like them to, and I'm going to need help. I don't know if this is a temporary condition, whether it will go back into remission as it had for more than ten years, or if, at nearly forty, I'm right on schedule for a more normal and gradual arthritic decline. Someone will have to help peel the five or six pounds of potatoes. Someone will have to stand by to lift the heavy pans. I can't put my hands into anything cold--last week, my oldest helped mix a meatloaf. Just those little things. As much as I love the togetherness of the meal itself, I treasure the solitude of the time I spend in the kitchen. Is it a thing of the past?

I say this, and every time I've reached a level of pain or limitation I felt was impermeable, I've found the one chink, the magic formula for pushing through. I have no doubt it will happen this time. Life is an evolutionary process, and I've managed to roll with it fairly well. I'm sure it's all this mid-life musing I've been doing, contemplating my gradual demise. Do I have another forty years in me? If so, I'm sure I could spend this small sliver of it focusing more on those pleasurable parts and less on what I give up to age, less on what I give up to my intolerance.

It's soon Thanksgiving. I've made it this far. My children are healthy and, for the most part and in all the ways that really matter, happy. They are safe. My husband loves me and I love him. I have a warm bed to sleep in at night and plenty to eat. I have friends and colleagues and interests and sobriety and a true feeling of purpose. I have a hot cup of coffee and a little bit of time to sit and think about these things rather than barreling through life or hiding from it.

Life is good. Happy Thanksgiving, all.

Till later...