Good morning, all. I hope everyone enjoyed the Thanksgiving weekend.
I know we had a great time. We started the weekend with my hubby's family, though that trip got off to a rocky start. Darling daughter was sick the night before and the morning of Thanksgiving day, so she didn't get much sleep. Which means Mommy didn't get ANY sleep.
We got to hubby's aunt's house, where the boys immediately took off with their cousins to play on the trampoline and swing set, and I didn't see them again for a few hours.
But the roughest part was the baby girl. She wanted NO ONE but momma. Which meant I carried her on my hip or sat with her in my lap most of the day.
And my poor, poor sister-in-law, Al. She is the sweetest girl, just love her, and she is always so nice to us and our kids, but she couldn't even look at Darling Daughter because the baby would burst into tears. Howling, screaming, clinging to me for dear life. Any eye contact whatsoever sent the child into freak-out mode, and my poor sister-in-law did nothing to warrant such harsh treatment.
I felt so terrible about it, and I hope Christmas goes better.
But my hubby got to hang with his brothers, they watched football, the food was good, we got to enjoy lots of time with his family, and had a wonderful time.
Then we went to my mom's house, and I spent another sleepless night with the baby, who was still recovering from her cold.
We did a little shopping, did a lot of cooking, and enjoyed another great holiday meal. I made my first ever homemade pie . . . from scratch. Made the crust, rolled it out, made the filling, crimped the edges, all of it.
Of course, my mom was standing right there with me the whole time, talking me through the process.
And I can honestly say that if I never make another pie again, it won't hurt my feelings one bit. I'm glad I made one from scratch. It was a good experience to say, "Yeah, I can make a homemade pie." But it's not something I would enjoy doing frequently.
I have an incredibly renewed respect for the homemakers of previous generations. Because that is some hot, sweaty, strenuous, and thankless work. My mom and I spent almost all day Saturday cooking and cleaning the house to get ready for our meal on Sunday.
So Sunday night rolls around, and after everyone has eaten and gone home, my brother struts into the den where mom and I are sitting down for a break and says, "Isn't anyone gonna clean up in the kitchen? You guys need to put that food away before it goes bad."
It took all my self-control not to leap over the ottoman and strangle him with my bare hands.
But . . . there's always Christmas.