I like to have my stuffing and eat it, too

So when mom or my sister (or maybe even it was me) floated the initial idea of Thanksgiving at my sister’s house in DC, I jumped. The last time we got together in DC for Thanksgiving was magic – almost mythic. Definitely in the top five Thanksgivings ever (despite not being able to find rutabega… but that’s another story).

Cliffe + Cabezas = a lotta crazy + cosy

I was drawn in by the promise of a joyful friends and family crowd with a fantastic, multicultural spread in a newly renovated house, hungry for family and connecting with my kids after a Covid lockdown of arguments as bitter as cranberry sauce with no sugar. Glass half-full to the core, I felt lucky to see them at all for such a short weekend.

Between far-away college student constraints and the pilot shortage that meant Krikor’s schedule was never secure, it was a minor miracle on the scale of a virgin birth that both kids would be able to make it to our big family gathering at all.

Krikor was a low-on-the-totem-pole pilot and seems to get reassigned and miss plans more times than not these days. Nyiri, lured by the venue (the “cool” aunt and uncle’s place) and the chance to see her brother, found reasonably priced tickets and managed to get the trip on her already packed calendar. They would both get into DCA on Thursday well before dinner. That was something to celebrate (even though they’d miss the parade and dinner preparations).

But let’s be honest, it was destined to be a roller coaster

Between between school exams and work demands and the outsized potential for travel disruptions, the rarefied sliver of the Thanksgiving long weekend is not a great time for connecting on a deep level with grown kids.

Knowing that **I** never came home for Thanksgiving when I was in college should have helped me recalibrate my expectations. As it turned out, that they wouldn’t be arriving until Thursday afternoon was only the tip of my needy, scheduling conflicts iceberg. I was, after all, still raw from being in the middle of parenting young adults.

A great beginning

My flight on the busiest travel day of the year was packed but smooth and (more important) on time. The crush of crowds and holiday music in the airport was a delicious appetizer for the big event tomorrow. The Metro ride was a trip down memory lane: the majestic arch of the stations (Italian design), the familiar boing boing sound of the closing doors that toddler Krikor used to sing to himself in his crib. I was overwhelmed with nostalgia sitting in the trains we’d travelled so often when the kids were young. I almost teared up, remembering so many happy trips and good times. It was a quick and easy trip to my sister’s house despite the yellow line closure that meant I had to loop way around.

The walk from the Metro was familiar, comforting, setting me up for a weekend of warm memory-making. I didn’t knock at the back door to the newly renovated house and walked into a World Cup watching scene out of Hollywood: big screen TVs blasting in Spanish (in the living room) and English (in the kitchen), a dozen or so die hard soccer fans alternately whooping and groaning. So fun! The house and guest room were full to the brim and I was delighted to be bunking with my niece. I think she was excited, too, as we chatted in bed later that night before agreeing that we both needed to get some sleep.

We were all up hours before the parade on Thursday morning: my brother-in-law and nephew went to play soccer at 7:30, everyone else pitched in to get the house ready. My niece and I walked out to Starbucks and Giant to get the all-important Starbucks latte (to help “recharge my marbles”) and last-minute groceries (apple cider, another cauliflower, Guyer cheese).

Nyiri’s plane landed at one o’clock sharp and her cousins were there at the airport to pick her up by the time she was out by the curb. Krikor flew in on time and without any blips and texted that he’d be over as soon as he dropped off his stuff.

Everything was falling into place as planned, until it wasn’t

First strike: No overlap on the end

I did have an inkling that the visit might be less than movie-perfect, since we already had minimal overlapping time over the already short weekend. My visit was front-loaded when Nyiri’s was end-loaded: I’d miss seeing her Wednesday night and most of Thanksgiving day, before she arrived. But “I’ll be there all weekend and most of Monday!” she assured me . Unfortunately I, usually the paragon of flexibility, had a can’t-miss doctor’s appointment Monday afternoon that required me to fly back in the morning.

Let the scheduling fun begin!!

As it tuned out, this was just the beginning of the scheduling iceberg disaster. It was in between the turkey and smashed potatoes and dessert – when we started to map out the weekend – that I truly understood to what extent our scheduling was more miss than match. I had visions of a shared time Friday morning (maybe all day?? until dinner); the kids had already planned brunch with their dad’s aunt and uncle and cousins. The kids and my parents were talking botanical gardens and a trip to the train display Saturday morning; I was meeting a friend for dinner Friday and then leaving for a couple of nights in Annapolis. So much for getting together over the weekend.

No time for leftovers starts to seem personal

No worries, I thought. I could shorten my trip to Annapolis and be back Saturday in time for dinner with the kids. My friend has kids of her own, and understood the situation exactly. She dropped me off at my sister’s at 5:30 and I skipped up to the front door, eager for dinner and an evening with the kids.

Turns out that matching our Thanksgiving calendars was like trying to put together two pieces of paper ripped in a fit of anger long ago. I texted and waited. And texted some more. Finally around eight o’clock, I got a quick text that they were just going to hang out at Krikor’s place and not come over to Addie’s at all.

It’s a ten minute walk from Krikor’s apartment to my sister’s house. I know it was cold and dark and they were comfortable and warm, but it still hurt. Time after time, I’d missed the mark.

The long weekend seemed more weak than long; more DoorDash than home cooking.

Like getting a McDonald’s Happy meal when what I craved was fine French dining. Don’t get me wrong – the food and the company and the conversations were plentiful and wonderful. It’s just that after three years apart, I’d forgotten that big-family gatherings can expose big baggage, no matter how functional the family.

Dessert after all

Two weeks of letting the Thanksgiving weekend simmer and mingle with the flavors brought to the table by other minds has done wonders. My friend in Annapolis pointed out how great it was that Krikor and Nyiri truly enjoy their time together. Another friend remarked how nice it is that they stay connected with their dad’s family – even when he’s not there. My mom and I marveled at how delightful it was to spend time with my niece. I remembered with fondness the warm hug Krikor gave me when he walked in the door, and the joy of a long walk through the city with Nyiri on Sunday for lattes.

There is a uniquely exquisite torture of realizing that you are – as a parent of newly-launched semi-adult children – uniquely superfluous in the lives brought into being and then spent decades nurturing.

But there is also a unique joy in seeing your kids thrive in their own way, being their own people in their own spaces. To be able to appreciate this without bitterness is a gift.

Forging ahead with that half full glass

I’m working on the schedule for Christmas and New Years’ now, and it’s way, way worse. There’s more to fit in (mom’s Solstice celebration, closing on my condo and moving everything in from my POD, not to mention Christmas, Christmas Eve, shopping on Newbury Street in Boston).

But I know for sure that it’s going to work out fine. Better than fine. I hope yours is as well.

 

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