Thanksgiving Eve

So tomorrow is Thanksgiving. It’s like the opening games of The Holiday Season, especially on the side of my family that celebrates all three grandsons’ birthdays (plus one great-grandson, now) in December.

It’s an exciting time.

Short work weeks. Big meals. Family gatherings. Gifts and cards. Cakes and cookies. Lights, decor, parties and cheer all around.

It all kicks off tomorrow morning when we wake up and don’t go to work, and honestly,

I’m nervous.

My dad’s family is moving their celebration to Tennessee, for the first time ever. My mom’s side of the family is waiting to get everyone together this weekend, and we’ll be joining them – a mere four hour drive. Husband’s family is waiting an extra week in expectation that his step-dad will be home from the hospital.

That leaves tomorrow to our little family, at my mom’s house, with my brother (and hopefully his sweet girlfriend). Quiet. Intimate. Small. Simple.

And I love that.

But I’m nervous. 

I’m nervous that I won’t enjoy it. That I’ll be so trapped inside my head or a gloom of melancholy, that I’ll miss the joy and the love and the pie that’s right in front of me.

I’m also nervous that I’ll enjoy it too much. That I’ll get caught up in the happiness of being at mom’s for dinner twice in one week, and my baby, and my brother, and my whole little family together, and good food, and new recipes that worked out better than I expected, and then I’ll ride home feeling guilty even though I know I shouldn’t.

I’m nervous that his absence will be this giant elephant in the room all night. That it will sit there, heavy on everyone’s heart, because even if it’s discussed, what words could be spoken to relieve it?

I’m nervous that it won’t be.

I’m nervous that my mom will read this, and try to compensate for me. That she’ll do something, or say something, that she wouldn’t have, because she’s worried about me. That she’ll meet me with that knowing gaze when I walk in, and hug me longer than normal.

I’m nervous she’ll read that and pretend like everything’s a-okay, when it’s really not. Because it’s really not. That she’ll put on a happy face and pretend she didn’t read this and nothing’s on her mind because she’s still a really great mama bear who wants to protect her kids from the big, bad world, and then I’ll ride home wondering if she’s okay in the quiet house.

Ya

The Holidays kick off tomorrow, and I’m sitting here in my own quiet house wondering what tomorrow will bring, feeling it creep closer and trying to look the other way like I don’t see it.

And I slide open my phone, and I flip to the Voicemails, and I tap the little arrow next to the first one marked Dad.

Hi, Lexi, it’s Dad. Just bein’ bored, callin’ my girls. I’ll talk to you later bye.

I never cry when I listen to his messages. Sometimes I even want to, but I can’t.

Because I know I will talk him later.

And I’m thankful for that.