Time to be Thankful

The Thanksgiving holiday is rapidly approaching. We have many things to be thankful for - our health, our home, our children, this growing baby. We have food on our table, books to read to our kids, fresh air in which to play outside, and time.

So why is it that with all I have to be thankful for, my heart feels so heavy? I suppose it has something to do with the whole holiday season - and my being prone to sentimentality.

Thanksgiving was my dad's favorite holiday. Of course - it centered around food, wine, and family. As a kid, we always celebrated Thanksgiving with my uncle (my dad's older brother) and his family. They lived in Portland, Oregon, we lived in Eastern Washington, and we'd alternate houses - one year we'd go there, the next they'd come to our house. I remember my mom and my aunt spending time in the kitchen, cooking and telling stories, and sharing sneaks of food as the turkey cooked. I remember running round outside in the cold northwest weather with my cousins - getting into all sorts of trouble - and finally coming inside before dinner to warm up, change our clothes, and eat our feast.

The years preceding my dad's death his side of the family gathered for a big family reunion - dad, his wife, my brother, my uncle and his family, and my aunt (dad's little sister) and her family. I never attended. I came up with some excuse or another - it was too expensive to travel to Washington or Oregon or California (the three siblings rotated houses each year) - it was too much time from work - I had a new baby to care for - it was too much trouble. I always thought I'd have more time.

Time. Time with my dad. Time to be a part of my family traditions.

I put my husband's family first - cooking elaborate meals for them full of the dishes and scents and tastes of my childhood, setting a beautiful table with fine china, crystal and linens. It was a feast and a table my dad would have been proud of.

I never in a million years thought my dad would die so young. I always thought to myself "next year - we'll go next year." Then, suddenly, "next year" wasn't there anymore. It wasn't an option. Dad was gone.

And every excuse I came up with all those years seems like the stupidest excuse in the world. Regret is a hard thing to live with. I don't know that I'll ever forgive myself for not being with my family during the holidays - and always putting D's family first.

The whole issue is exacerbated by D's family now. What was once seemingly appreciated and enjoyed is now forgotten. It's too much trouble for D's family to come to our house on holidays - the reasons why I can't even begin to explain. Our house will be silent this Thanksgiving. The traditions and tastes and smells of the Thanksgivings of my childhood will remain a memory. The traditions I wanted to create for my children - holidays of playing outside with cousins and trying to grab a sneaky bite or two of dinner - will not occur. The memories I have of sitting around a beautiful table, loaded with special dishes, while family laughs and eats and tells stories so loudly and all at the same time that it is hard to distinguish who is talking will remain memories.

It's hard to accept that the holidays I desperately tried to re-create for my children with D's family aren't now - and will never - occur. It's hard to look at my dining room with the china and crystal slowly accumulating dust.

I know in my head I should be thankful. And I am. For many things. But for many others, I'm not.