When it’s time to grow up and cook a damn turkey
Only grown-ups host Thanksgiving.
That was my first thought when I heard hints that perhaps it was our turn to gather everyone together for turkey dinner.
Us? Prepare and serve one of the fanciest meals of the year to a large group of relatives? You do realize that we only recently stopped eating Hamburger Helper and we only own one pot with a lid?
Michael and I started dating in Grade 11, so we have spent the last 14 Thanksgivings attending meals at each other’s family homes. My family’s dinner was always a small affair for three (four, once Michael joined us), but his family’s dinner often included more than 20 immediate family members. That’s a lot of pie.
Traditionally, Michael’s older sisters take turns hosting Thanksgiving dinner and Christmas dinner while his parents host Christmas Eve. They do a lovely job, and we’ve been happy attendants. They both have dining rooms with actual dining room sets, plus kitchen tables, and more chairs than you could ever want. They also have luxuries like gravy boats and silver ladles and … more than nine forks.
One of his sisters will be away with her family over Thanksgiving this year, and it’s her turn to host. So Michael suggested we could step in. This will be the first Thanksgiving dinner that combines both of our families, so that’s convenient in terms of scheduling. We also don’t have the trek into the city, so that’s another bonus.
But as for numbers … *counts on fingers* … oh dear, that’s a lot of people. Is it hot in here? I feel a little faint.
We do alright hosting family birthday parties and the odd BBQ, but those are affairs when it’s OK to use paper plates and big plastic bowls of chips. Thanksgiving is the big time. Real dishes, real flatware, probably even cloth napkins. I used to own exactly four of those, and we never used them so I donated them. I hope they’re happy in their new home.
As much as I have fear hosting Thanksgiving, I’m grateful for the kick in the pants it’s giving me. Since Michael is the youngest of his family, we’ve always been the junior adults that never had the full responsibilities of everyone else. His sisters were completely capable of hosting everyone for the holidays when they were younger than us, so it’s time we stepped up.
The turkey may be overcooked and I can’t make any promises about the creaminess of the mashed potatoes, but we’re going to do our best. We’re going to put on our grown-up aprons and figure out how to make a huge meal for a huge group without the help of the BBQ and packages of hamburger buns.
Yes, our little house will be crowded and we don’t have a dining room (or that many chairs), but we’ll just call it “cozy.”
After all, Thanksgiving is about getting together with the people you love and feeling grateful for each other — hopefully not while dodging lumps of flour in the gravy.
How our 2010s kids are becoming 1990s kids
We live on a fairly new street where the skinny pie-shaped backyards all run into each other, without fences or trees to separate them. We have wonderful next-door neighbours who have a two year old and a four year old, so it’s always felt like we share one (slightly larger) yard as the kids play together.
But our shared yard feels like it’s gotten a lot bigger lately, as our three year old and five year old have formed fast friendships with some other kids on our street. Being at the bus stop for 7:25 a.m. is exhausting (SERIOUSLY EXHAUSTING) but it is doing wonders for our social life.
Every afternoon when we return from the bus, we have a quick snack and interrogation (er, conversation) about everyone’s day. Then the kids run to the patio doors to see if their friends have come out to play. At the first sign of someone, they’ve got their sneakers and sweatshirts on and they’re rushing down the back steps.
Before long, a whole gang of them will be gathered in “the yards,” as we’ve taken to calling the long stretch of adjoining lawns. Their ages range from two to nearly 11, and sometimes there is a dozen of them.
They tend to congregate in the yard with the giant play structure, but sometimes they’ll meander over to our yard to play in the sandbox or dig holes in the dirt. I sent out chocolate-chip cookies and lemonade the other day and everything was devoured in minutes.
https://instagram.com/p/8EDAhINIdR
What’s amazed me most is how the two oldest girls are so skilled at corralling and entertaining the younger ones. As I sit and work on my laptop at the dining room table, I’ll look out the window and see them all clustered in a circle playing a game or clapping for each other as they do fancy jumps off a set of shed steps. It’s like I’ve enrolled my kids in a free after-school program right in my own backyard!
The kids were raring to run outside the other day, but only the two oldest girls were out. I instructed our kids that they needed to ask if the girls wanted to play, in case they were doing “big kid stuff” like making their (totally adorable) Rainbow Loom animals and food charms.
I hesitated as I opened the back door, wondering if the girls would be annoyed to see my two littles running towards them at full speed. But as soon as the girls turned around and saw them, they shouted their names and rushed over to meet them. They spun them around in circles and gave them their famous “running piggy-backs” across the yards.
I stood in the doorway for a minute, marveling at these lovely 10-year-olds who were so eager to play with my much-younger children. Was I like that at their age? I didn’t think so, but then I thought back to the two adorable little boys who lived across from my dad and stepmom’s house, growing up.
Their soft hair smelled like sunshine and they adored me and my sister. I was not quite at the babysitting age, but I loved playing with them and taking care of them as we played in their yard. When the one-year-old sat down in my lap to drink his bottle one day, I remember thinking it was the sweetest thing that had ever happened to me.
There is so much talk these days about how children are living a “playdate existence” where all of their time is structured, even their socialization. Up until now, our kids really have been limited to playdates or playing outside as a family — or with the next-door neighbours.
This is their first taste of the ’90s kid experience that my husband and I had as children: running around with a pack of kids from your street, getting dirty, making up games, and not coming inside until you’re called back for dinner. Our kids return happy and tired, with flushed cheeks and muddy jeans.
The best part is that they don’t even need to go near the street because of the connected backyards. What we disliked most about our yard has now become its best feature.
Home province/state string art
The last thing my house needs is more wall art. Well, I suppose if we’re getting technical, the last things it needs are wooden monograms, dust, fabric stashes, and crayons with the labels ripped off.
Anyway, that certainly doesn’t stop me from making new art for any sliver of wall space I can find. There are so many fun examples of string art — not to be confused with string theory, Big Bang Theory fans — and I knew I had to try it.
I started with a scrap of wood from the basement, and gave it two quick coats of chalkboard paint — mainly because I just love that soft black shade, but also because it meant I could do chalk lettering instead of painted lettering. I was really into an episode of Suits, so I didn’t want to miss anything.
While the paint was drying, I hopped online and Googled “Nova Scotia silhouette.” In no time at all I was printing out a simple outline of our fair province. I cut it out a centimetre away from the border, so I could make it a little larger than the original. My apologies to any seaside towns that might have been lopped off by my sloppy cutting!
I traced the paper template onto the wood with a pencil, using tiny markings so I didn’t have to erase anything later.
Then I grabbed a package of teeny-tiny nails (that’s a technical term) and started hammering them all the way around the outline — starting at key parts of the shape, and then filling in between until I got bored. Then I drew a heart over our general area (Truro) and hammered nails all the way around it.
I used leftover grey yarn to outline the province by wrapping a strand around a nail for a full loop, and then stringing it to the next one. Then came the tricky part!
I have a beef to pick with Nova Scotia — its shape, more specifically. In the string art on Pinterest, it’s always of simply-shaped states like Alabama or Wisconsin. Nova Scotia’s tricky shape mean it was hard (impossible?!) to neatly string red embroidery thread from the heart to the perimeter. I eventually gave up and switched to a random pattern, but it’s still bugging me.
After I threw the thread aside, I taped off the edges of the wood and used white paint to give them a faux “frame.”
Then I grabbed a piece of the kids’ chalk, sharpened it, and wrote “Home is where the heart is.” I briefly considered printing out letters and tracing them, but who has time for that? My favourite trick for free-hand lettering is to find a cool font on a free website (like Dafont.com), type in your word or phrase, and then copy it as best you can directly onto your project. In this case, the letters were very simple — but making the horizontal strokes in H, E, R, and A extra-low gave it a more polished look.
I haven’t decided where to hang this project yet, but I’m sure there are a few gallery walls that could use a friend. I’ll just have to make sure it’s hung nice and high, or else my darling children might decide it’s a free-for-all chalkboard!
Dance mom drama
I was up before the sun for registration, determined to make it into our preferred class. I had packed snacks and water the night before. It was like I’d been training for this moment my whole life every time I tried desperately to get tickets for a concert.
I fought back visions of my three-year-old daughter being crushed that she couldn’t go to dance class. I mean, she’d only talked about it every single day all summer long. No pressure.
Once I had confirmation we’d made the class, I let out the breath I’d been holding for three months. We were in! Did it feel this good when I got into university? Maybe. I was exhilarated.
The dance school announced they’d be doing fittings in their store that same afternoon, so we excitedly went over to purchase tights — and, mostly, to bask in the glory that we’d gotten in. I planned on sewing a leotard for Charlotte, but I wanted to know what sort of style was required.
Of course, there was a whole rack of leotards, and I couldn’t resist making her try one on. Just for sizing purposes, so I could decide what I was going to sew. I had no sooner tugged up the straps when I felt myself melt at the sight of my very own teeny, tiny ballerina.
She was like a figurine in a music box. The pale pink footless tights. The fitted black leotard with a scoop neckline, strappy back and delicate puffed sleeves. It was too perfect. Here, take my money. Oh, you already have my credit card on file from registration? Perfect. Even better. We must have it all!
We had a full month to wait until the first class, but it went quickly during the back-to-school madness as Charlotte started preschool and her brother, Dexter, started primary. We talked about “dance class with Miss Mah-wissa” more and more as we got closer to the big day, and I even wrote out a countdown calendar so she could cross off the days with wobbly marker scrawls.
Then, somehow, it was the night before class started and our leotard hadn’t arrived. Wait, what? We had the pale pink footless tights, but nothing to go on top. I felt my first twinge of Dance Mom Panic.
Now, here’s what you need to know about Dance Mom Heather. She is shriller than Cheer Mom Heather (although less anxious), and she’s way more uppity than easygoing Soccer Mom Heather. Dance Mom Heather is certainly more excitable than T-ball Mom Heather, who tried to hide in the dugout and sketch until practice was over.
Dance Mom Heather is a different beast, charging around with visions of pale pink tights and open-backed leotards and smooth hair-sprayed buns. Dance Mom Heather wants it all to be PERFECT!
Dance Mom Heather is also not at all reasonable. Charlotte had half a dozen gymnastics outfits I’d made for her, and she could have worn any of those. She could have worn a tank top and leggings. She could have worn just about anything to that first class, and it would have been fine.
But no, no, no. I stayed up very late sewing a little black bodysuit with a low back. The elastic bunched, the neckline was uneven, and the whole thing was a tad too short. I walked into the studio feeling a little pouty at our missing (totally beautiful) leotard. For once, Charlotte wasn’t supposed to be in a handmade piece with loose threads and wonky hems. For once, she was supposed to be in the perfect store-bought dance clothing.
The little girls were name-tagged and whisked into a bright studio with mirrors and lights, and I crowded around the window with the other parents to watch. From across the room, you could barely tell which little girl belonged to you. They all had white or pink tights and none of them had exactly the same bodysuit (although most were varying shades of black) and they were perfect. All of them.
They hopped like bunnies and leapt like frogs and jumped onto paper circles dotted around the studio floor. They laughed and ran and floated like tiny butterflies to the music. The parents murmured about how adorable they all were, and we laughed over the fact that we couldn’t tell if it was a window or a two-way mirror (a question solved when my daughter waved merrily at us).
It was over too soon, and our little ballerinas burst out of the studio excitedly showing us their stickers. They had gotten the full big-girl dance class experience, after waiting all summer for their big day, and their cheeks with flushed with pride and excitement.
The leotard is on backorder, I think, but I don’t mind anymore. The neckline on the one I made isn’t that wonky and Charlotte doesn’t seem to mind the bunchy elastic. She is just so, so excited for her next class, and so am I.
If my inner Dance Mom pipes up again about perfection, I’m going to tour jeté her in the face.
The modern rocking chair makeover
I know, I know — painting antique wood is wrong. Some of you are probably cringing at the before and after photos this week, and thinking I’m crazy for messing with something so old.
But hear me out. One of my husband’s colleagues gifted us with a very sweet child-sized rocking chair. It had a lot of sentimental value to him, so he wanted it to go to a home with small children who would use it.
We left it as-is for a few months, but the original red leather seat was flecked with paint and I kept thinking of how I might modernize it. Yes, I felt a little guilty for tampering with it, but I knew it would fit in with our home better — and get a lot of use — with a few tweaks.
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