I know.
This photo is not what you expected to see here today. I completely sympathize with your disappointment. I, too, expected to find today's post cluttered with fancy photographs of pumpkin pie and cornbread stuffing. (Both were delicious, by the way...) I figured I'd be writing all about that luscious cranberry sauce I made, or the aromatic Finnish bread, or the silky, dark chocolate filling I stirred, lovingly, at midnight, in hopes of holiday perfection.
But, alas, I am a heartfelt blogger, and although food is usually...okay, always...at the top of my heart, tonight is a different story.
I'm sitting here, my head filled with new memories from the past five days. I cooked a lot, laughed a lot, talked a lot, and hardly slept a wink. It was a great week.
Yet, here I am, at the close of another Thanksgiving, my heart feeling bittersweet. Slightly blue. A tad mournful. Because the best part of this past week wasn't the food, or the afternoon of child-free shopping, or the leftover pie. (Wait, that's the same category as food...oh well...one track mind.)
One memory lingers from Thanksgiving day. The kids were playing Red Rover on the lawn. The sky was blue. The air was cool. Laughter rippled throughout the family like lapping waves as children ran free, tummies full and content.
Matt was stretched out on the grass, his hands behind his head, his feet crossed. I lay my head upon his chest, curling into his side. He wrapped his arm around my waist, and I closed my eyes. The earth felt still. Peaceful. We lay quiet for who knows how long, with Jane intermittently crashing down upon us. It was a perfect moment when all felt right in the world. And there, at his side, under the open sky, I thanked heaven for him, for this time with him, to be his wife, to be his friend, to be his love.
And that, by far, was the best part of Thanksgiving. These past five days have been a gift to me, to have him so near, playing with my children at the park, in the pool, at our home. I feel it so strongly, and so do they.
Tonight I carried Mitchell to bed. We peeked in the kitchen to say goodnight to Matt. He stopped, walked straight over to the little boy in my arms, looked in his eyes, stroked his face and, with a twinge of sadness said, "Mitchell, you know that I love you, right?"
I knew we were feeling the same thing. This precious time we've had has come to a close. Back to normal life. Back to busy life. Early mornings. Late nights. And never enough time with each other.
Thank goodness for Thanksgiving. Thank goodness for children. Thank goodness for fathers who hug their children tightly at the end of a day, whispering promises of love and affection. Thank goodness for husbands who love so fiercely, yet so quietly, who sacrifice, every single day, to create a better life for their families.
There is so much I'll remember about this year's Thanksgiving, but Jane's face as she came down the slide with her dad, or Mitchell, despite his goosebumps, diving back in the pool just to be with his dad, or the girls eating late night toast, sitting and chatting with their dad at the counter, or my husband, winking at me from across the kitchen, all top the list.
This photo is not what you expected to see here today. I completely sympathize with your disappointment. I, too, expected to find today's post cluttered with fancy photographs of pumpkin pie and cornbread stuffing. (Both were delicious, by the way...) I figured I'd be writing all about that luscious cranberry sauce I made, or the aromatic Finnish bread, or the silky, dark chocolate filling I stirred, lovingly, at midnight, in hopes of holiday perfection.
But, alas, I am a heartfelt blogger, and although food is usually...okay, always...at the top of my heart, tonight is a different story.
I'm sitting here, my head filled with new memories from the past five days. I cooked a lot, laughed a lot, talked a lot, and hardly slept a wink. It was a great week.
Yet, here I am, at the close of another Thanksgiving, my heart feeling bittersweet. Slightly blue. A tad mournful. Because the best part of this past week wasn't the food, or the afternoon of child-free shopping, or the leftover pie. (Wait, that's the same category as food...oh well...one track mind.)
One memory lingers from Thanksgiving day. The kids were playing Red Rover on the lawn. The sky was blue. The air was cool. Laughter rippled throughout the family like lapping waves as children ran free, tummies full and content.
Matt was stretched out on the grass, his hands behind his head, his feet crossed. I lay my head upon his chest, curling into his side. He wrapped his arm around my waist, and I closed my eyes. The earth felt still. Peaceful. We lay quiet for who knows how long, with Jane intermittently crashing down upon us. It was a perfect moment when all felt right in the world. And there, at his side, under the open sky, I thanked heaven for him, for this time with him, to be his wife, to be his friend, to be his love.
And that, by far, was the best part of Thanksgiving. These past five days have been a gift to me, to have him so near, playing with my children at the park, in the pool, at our home. I feel it so strongly, and so do they.
Tonight I carried Mitchell to bed. We peeked in the kitchen to say goodnight to Matt. He stopped, walked straight over to the little boy in my arms, looked in his eyes, stroked his face and, with a twinge of sadness said, "Mitchell, you know that I love you, right?"
I knew we were feeling the same thing. This precious time we've had has come to a close. Back to normal life. Back to busy life. Early mornings. Late nights. And never enough time with each other.
Thank goodness for Thanksgiving. Thank goodness for children. Thank goodness for fathers who hug their children tightly at the end of a day, whispering promises of love and affection. Thank goodness for husbands who love so fiercely, yet so quietly, who sacrifice, every single day, to create a better life for their families.
There is so much I'll remember about this year's Thanksgiving, but Jane's face as she came down the slide with her dad, or Mitchell, despite his goosebumps, diving back in the pool just to be with his dad, or the girls eating late night toast, sitting and chatting with their dad at the counter, or my husband, winking at me from across the kitchen, all top the list.
The End.
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