I Hate Thanksgiving Dinner
By: Meg Furey
Tags: Parenthood, Postpartum Depression, Depression, Thanksgiving, Motherhood

I brace myself as we arrive at my in-laws’ vacation rental. No one has napped. My husband and I have been changing diapers, cleaning dishes, dressing and redressing our Rooster, loading him into and out of the baby carrier, alternately breastfeeding and feeding him finger foods, trying to make him happy and keep him safe since 7:00 AM.

I am tired. I say that I am tired as often as I tell my husband that I love him, hoping that by letting him know that I love him, he might forgive how tired I am.

When we walk through the door, Jeff’s mother notes that Rooster looks tired, as if we are conjoined, as if his fatigue is contingent on mine and not the other way around. We are asked if either of us has gotten a nap and when I say “no” my father-in-law proudly announces that he had taken an afternoon nap and it was delightful.

At that moment, I want to kill him as much as I want to kill myself sometimes.

Rooster and I quietly move to another room, slipping past my family and my husband’s. I hold him in my lap and I nurse him until he falls asleep. My husband appears alone with a glass of wine for me. He watches me down half of it in one greedy gulp. I sigh loudly and he smiles and places his hand on my knee. We sit together quietly murmuring to each other about our families, our son, this Christmas. We are joking in a language only we speak. We are intimate again. This feels manageable.

And then the spell is broken. My father-in-law shouts loudly that dinner is ready over the din of our families getting to know each other. It’s jarring. He yells again when we don’t immediately stop what we are doing and start eating. I feel unmoored. I am losing my footing and my mind narrows quickly, moving to the place where things begin to blur before my eyes and my ears start to ring.

I watch from just beyond the fray trying to gauge where we’ll sit while my father-in-law interrupts conversations to impose plates on whoever’s near him, herding our families into a buffet line. I’m hoping for a seat next to my brother and his girlfriend, but before I can protest someone has placed our highchair near a card table in the room furthest from the main table. At the kids’ table.

I take a seat at the card table cramped by lawn chairs. Jeff’s cousin and his wife, both of whom I’ve never met, sit next to the table precariously balancing paper plates with oversized foods on one knee and their babies on their other. I place my hands on the table and push my plastic lawn chair out and drag it away, I scoot Rooster’s highchair close to myself, and I demand that they sit at the table and they do.

Over the years I’ve learned to be good at small talk. Whether you like chit chat or not, it behooves you to become adept at conversation. When done well, it’s as sexy a skill as walking into a crowded room and playing piano at a party.

Jeff’s cousin and his wife have a three-year-old and a seven-month-old. He is an electrician, she’s a stay-at-home mom. Their children go to bed at 6:30 PM. They live in Cedar Park. They own their home.

I pick at my plate between asking them questions, placing cooled bits of potato and butternut squash on Rooster’s tray. I am hardly half engaged in the conversation or feeding my son. I don’t want it to, but my mind begins to wander because they haven’t asked me questions and I get it, they’re tired too. I think about the expensive red lipstick I’m wearing. Power Matte Lip Pigment from NARS. It feels extravagant to spend $26 on a single lip color because it is. I look across the room and find my husband sitting with my brother and I wish we were at our favorite restaurant and not here in this cramped vacation rental eating my least favorite meal of the year. I wish I was sitting alone at my favorite bar watching a movie or eavesdropping on a conversation. I wish it were raining and me, my husband, and our son were snuggled together in our bed sleeping at the same time. I wish I constantly didn’t wish I were somewhere else. I wish I constantly didn’t wish I was someone else.

Rooster begins to rub his eyes. That means he’s finished eating. No more food, please. I sweep his remaining scraps onto my plate of pushed around foods. I throw our plate into the garbage can and my heart sinks as I pour myself another glass of wine.