It is not Thanksgiving until something is on fire.

As a family, I think we do a lot of things well. Great Fourth of July barbecues. Excellent Christmas desserts. We even are able to be fun and obnoxious on St Patrick's with our insistence on wearing orange. Thanksgiving, though, is not really our forte.

Thanksgiving pasts with my immediate family looks like a long list of bad Friend's episodes:
1) The One Where The Dog Knocked Over The Christmas Tree Because He Was Chasing A Mouse (2000) Really, though, that one is on us for having the tree up before Christmas. 

2) The One Where Maggie And Dad Both Had Bronchitis (2002)

3) The One Where We Broke The Fridge And The Pumpkin Pie Within Three Minutes Of Waking Up (2012) Some people still ate the pumpkin pie despite it being involved in the chaos and spending a fair amount of time on the kitchen floor. They will remain nameless for the sake of their dignity.

4) The One Where I Was Gross Preggo And Our Usual Two Hour Trip To The Aunt's Took Four Hours Because I Couldn't Even (2011)

5) The One Where I Ended Up In Urgent Care And Between Breathing Treatments Tried to Convince The Doctor I Was Totally Okay To Go To The UVA/VT Game That Weekend (2003) Fun fact: That was the last year UVA won the rivalry game. Wait... that is actually not fun at all. 

6) The One Where Molly and Momma Both Were Sick* And Maggie Had To Cook All By Herself With No Prior Experience (2000) *The level of some people's sickness and inability to help is still hotly debated in the Bowden household. 

This year alone, we had a grease fire, a fire in the oven that required every window in the house to be opened in 30 degree weather, and a microwave fire. All before actual Thanksgiving Day.

Nothing, though, can top our first Thanksgiving back from Germany. It was 1989. My parents were facing the first "real" Thanksgiving since the death of both of their moms and my mom's beloved grandparents. The two years following the deaths, they had followed custom and Dad had taken us all to eat with the troops in the Mess Hall. Now, though, we were home. And still sad. And Momma just wasn't up for it.

So, a new tradition was born. Dinner at the Officer's Club - surrounded by happy families, delicious food, and beautiful decorations. We would get dressed up, eat out, and all enjoy a movie. All of the family time without any of the kitchen toiling. Besides the inevitable argument of having a 4 year old agree on a movie with a 10 and 12 year old, it was fool-proof.

It started off perfectly. It was a beautiful fall day in Virginia. The food was amazing (even if it did set an unfortunate stage where I believed for a good ten years that people only ate fried chicken and froyo on Thanksgiving) and the siblings and I were keeping our quarreling to a minor hum. For a family that didn't want to concentrate on death and loss and empty seats at the table, it was perfect.

Then halfway into our meal, the grandmother at the table next to us dropped dead. Chair backwards, family aghast, hit us on her way down, dropped dead.

It was awful. Awful. And sad. And I can't even imagine being that poor woman or her family.

But it was Thanksgiving. The Thanksgiving we were going to not think about death or loss or tragedy. And she was right next to our table. 

It is dark and twisted, but it has become part of our family lore. It is the Thanksgiving that makes us cringe and laugh so uncomfortably when we discuss it. We weren't going to think about death and then...

It is the Thanksgiving that all others are now compared to and probably will be for all time. Oh, the house is on fire? Well at least nobody died at the table next to us.

So, there is always that.

From our family to yours, wishing you all a wonderful, happy Thanksgiving. While we miss those we have lost, we are thankful, thankful, thankful for all the love we have shared.

Thanksgiving 1989. Don't hate on Molly's sweater. 

'Cause we need a little Christmas

For the month of October, we did all the Halloween things. All of them. And when we were done with all the Halloween things, we did some more. I drove RB and B crazy, dragging them from pumpkin themed event to pumpkin themed event. Christmas is quickly beginning to shape up the same way. We will visit Santa in multiple different venues, check out the toddler plays, see the lights, listen to the music. It will be Christmas 24/7 nonstop the second Thanksgiving is over.

Anyone who has known me longer than five seconds will not be surprised by my over-doing it on the holiday cheer. This year, though, I almost feel compelled to over do it. To plan and schedule and book. To pick out cute dresses for B and redo our family decorations. To keep going and going and going with all the festivity and joy I can muster. I feel like if I slow down, if I stop for even one breath, my usual Christmas joy will be replaced by all the pain of the last Christmas season.

So, when RB talks about Thanksgiving this year and our schedule to go to my aunt's, I throw myself into looking up new recipes and finding new Thanksgiving books for B.
I don't want to remember how last year, the day after Thanksgiving, we were driving to Virginia with so much joy and anticipation of the celebration that lay head. Or how Daddy's voice sounded unrecognizable when I picked up the phone and sent a panic through my entire body. How the hours dragged as we tried to make the seven hours left of our drive go as quickly as possible. How all our dearest friends and family sounded as I forced myself to robocall them all at my dad's request. "She has had a stroke. We don't really know more than that. Yes, of course I will keep you updated. No, there is nothing you can do."

As I face down the last few weeks of my twenties, RB softly prods me to say I want to do anything - anything at all - for my 30th. My dearest friends whisper to me about it in hushed tones.
"Let's just get wine. We can all cry. I can't imagine a birthday without your mom."
 I gave RB the go ahead to plan, though. To schedule something with those we love even if it is low key and I cry on the way there and back. A little joy during what will probably be a bleak and wallowing month.
And if I let myself wallow long enough, all I will be able to think about is my last birthday with you. Taking my shift at the hospital, my hand holding yours, my head on the hospital bed. My phone beeped and buzzed with so much love from so many others and all I wanted was you. I begged you and God both, and equally, that you would wake up. You would dry my tears and wish me a happy birthday. That night, confidently, I told Daddy I wasn't opening the presents from you. They
were so beautifully and lovingly wrapped. I wasn't going to do it, I said. I would wait to do it with you, when you were well and could see the enjoyment of what you had so painstakingly purchased. Then, when it was all said and done and those hopes were finally and forever dashed, the presents sat in our house. For months, I stared at them. Unable to open them. They were the last I would ever receive from you. Opening them was just another step in saying goodbye I wasn't willing to take just yet. 

Every year since RB and I have been married, I have been done shopping by Thanksgiving. After returning home from Thanksgiving dinner, we have opened wine, put in a Christmas movie, and I have wrapped all the gifts for hours. We wake up the next morning to the shopping and material busyness of the season over, and only the fun left. This year, I have barely been able to make a list. I am putting it off so in those quiet moments of December, I can run out for one more gift or to check one more relative off my list.
Last year, your list was almost done. Daddy had set up your wrapping station in his office so you could spend the evenings together. You would wrap while he wrote or played on his computer. He asked me to finish the packages. I spent hours sorting through your notes and tags, trying to decipher which nephew Nathan received which wrapped candy. My fingers lingered on the ribbons you had already curled and the scraps of paper you had saved just in case you found the perfect tiny gift to fit them. There was so much love in all of it. So much thought and caring and genuine goodwill towards everyone you adored. 

I will do a 5K under the Christmas lights with some of my sweetest friends next weekend. Others want to wander the Atlanta Botanical Gardens at night. RB wants to give B her first hot chocolate and drive around the suburbs taking in the houses in all their Christmas glory.
That is how I want to think of Christmas lights. Surrounded by those I love, enjoying our time together. The last lights I remember seeing were in the neighborhood where I grew up. The houses pristine, the families merry and celebrating. I drove down the street so bright with all the festivity, exhausted from another 12 hours at the hospital. All I wanted to do was scream. How can everyone else be so happy? So cheerful? Don't they know the world is ending?

As we talk about gifts for B, we turn first to St Nikolaus Day. She will put her shoes out on the 6th and wake up on the 7th to see what the German Santa has brought to her. Growing up, this was always such a fun day - the transition from my birthday to it really being Christmas time in our house. We would wake to the smell of coffee cake and bacon. Our shoes would be overflowing - not with anything grandiose or over the top, but with the little things kids love. Christmas socks and lip gloss. Stickers and new art supplies. One year, Santa brought me "The Magic Locket." I was so excited to read it and wear the locket that accompanied the sweet story of a girl finding her own worth. The locket has long since been lost, but the book sits on B's shelf waiting to become a part of her childhood memories just as St Nikolaus Day will be.
St Nikolaus day last year, we didn't even put out her shoes. RB was driving up from GA the evening of the 7th, doing his best to support our little family in two different states. We gave her the presents with little fanfare, but our sweet little 1 1/2 year old was overjoyed with the Fisher Price Santa Workshop. Her face lit up and she played with it for hours over the following dark weeks. I could barely watch the whole scene. How dare we be doing St Nikolaus Day in your house and you not be there to share it? You would be loving this, Dad kept telling us. Loving every minute of it. But you weren't there. You were in a hospital bed and as each day ticked by it sunk in a little more that you would probably never be coming home. We tried to pretend like that wasn't true. We talked about St Nikolaus Day 2014. How you would delight in seeing the kids set out their shoes. How you would have special treats for them you hadn't told Molly or me about beforehand. We kept talking about the distant future, as if it would all be okay then. It would all be set right again. I knew, though, I think by St Nikolaus Day. I could feel it in my bones that this was done; that we were on borrowed time with you. 

RB has been measuring our den, trying to determine the new placement of the Christmas tree now that every inch of our house seems to be covered in pink and princesses. He wants to go to a Christmas tree farm and take B. We will start off the season with a new family tradition. And I agree. I google the best tree farms in the area and make sure it is penciled in our calendars. It will be another distraction, followed by the hours it will take to decorate and beautify. Followed, of course, by the countless hours of helping B take the non-breakable ornaments off the tree and put them back on again and again and again.
There were always so many beautiful trees in our home growing up. You always had a tree in my bedroom that was my very own and had multi-colored lights that shone brightly all night. Everyone else in the family hated the multi-colored lights but they were my absolute favorite. I would lie awake at night watching them, basking in the warmth that the lights and your love exuded. Now, when I think of your Christmas trees, I see the very last one. You had just finished decorating it when you had your stroke. It was tall and beautiful and took up almost the entire sun room. Someone turned it on the night you passed. Me, maybe? Or, RB to distract B? Maybe it was one of the women from the church. That first night, though, with you gone it shone magnificently - the only light in an otherwise dark and hurting house. Neither Daddy nor I could stomach going upstairs. He wasn't ready to face an empty room without you and I felt too numb to move. So, we slept on the couch. He in your favorite chair. Me curled in a ball across from the tree. So many times I woke up that night, awash in the glow from your perfect tree. My heart filled with the love of Christmas and all the joy and warmth it brings. Then suddenly, each time, the reality of where I was and what we had all lost would hit and the lights of the tree would become blurred in my tears. 

We are filling up our calendar quickly - scheduling and scheduling and scheduling some more. Movies and ornament exchanges. Cookie parties and ballet recitals. Joy and cheer and Christmas mirth. In January, we will slow down again. And it will probably hit me all over again. For now, though, I just want to keep moving and celebrating. Doing all the holiday things that have always been so magical. The ones that remind me of my sweet Momma and how much she loved this time of year. The ones that take me back to being a little girl again, so loved and so happy. The ones that inspire me to be a better mom to B, to fill her every days with the magic of this season.

It won't be the same. It will never be the same again. At least, though, we can have a little bit of the Christmas spirit. We just have to keep going.

Christmas 2013: B playing with Momma's last decorations

Santa! I know him!

Six hours later and I am still in shock. Complete shock.

2013: B discovers that she hates Santa. Santa doesn't seem too pleased with her either. 

We headed out for our annual visit to Santa this afternoon and I had braced myself for all the chaos that would ensue. I was expecting a repeat of our Easter bunny fiasco  or a picture similar
to last year's - just add a little more hair and a lot more sass.

The day started out headed for disaster. Nap time started late which meant we had to wake B up early to make our Santa appointment.

I know, I know - never wake a sleeping baby. But any Atlanta mom knows that you wake a sleeping baby for the Phipps Santa. The Phipps Santa is serious stuff. You enter a raffle in June just to get a slot to register. Just to register for a chance for an appointment. Six months before Christmas. 

Then, once you have won your coveted registration time two months later in September, you hustle to get the best time slot possible for the actual Santa appointment. You stop whatever you are doing whenever that email comes through to let you know it is go time. This stuff is serious. I mean First World, Suburbia Serious, but serious nonetheless. Rumor has it that if you no-show on your appointment you are blacklisted. People trade their slots on Facebook, pleading with friends to work something out. It is all ridiculous. But we love it. And we wake a sleeping baby to make our appointment on time.

So, we woke her up. As expected, she wasn't pleased. We soldiered on (and maybe bribed with some new books) and headed to the mall.

The minute we got there, there was angry side eye and some loud yells regarding putting a bow in her hair. Same with a headband. She asked 10 times in line to leave. She asked where her dogs were. The babies three people ahead of us howled, while the couple behind us fussed with their toddler's sweater and gave me the judgey look as I tried to tempt B with any - any, please B - of the bows we brought. Listen, lady... all you have to deal with is a pair of khakis and a Polo pull over. Get back to me when you have a girl and all the accessories and attitude that come with her. 

We filled out the wish list for Santa to read to B. We happily told B how excited she should be. It is Santa! Yay! You are going to have so much fun sitting with him! She continued to stare at us, seeing right through our fake smiles and cheer. Please don't scream. Please don't punch him in the face like last year. Please. Please. Please. 

Every bit the line inched forward, my anxiety heightened just slightly. She is going to pull his hair. The whole mall is going to hear the screaming. She is going to be missssssserable. Why do we do this every year? 

The kids in front of us went. Two smiling, perfectly matched little darlings sat on Santa's lap, smiling from ear to ear. Clearly their parents sedated them. Or bribed them. BRIBED THEM. I forgot about bribery. 

I flashed back to my cousins telling me about how they used to smuggle the Phipps Santa M&Ms. Their son would sit in his lap for what seemed like hours, smiling perfectly for the camera, meanwhile being slipped small little colorful disks of chocolate crack. Hey, you do what you have to do for Christmas photos. 

So, we leaned forward and whispered to B "If you go up to Santa, you can Trick or Treat."

Her head snapped up, eyes narrowed, and she pushed to get down from me. "TRICK OR TREATS! TRICK OF TREATS!" Okay, this might be awesome or this might backfire. It is done now. Go big or go home. 

And then.. it was our turn. She was perfect. She sat in his lap. She didn't ask for us or even seem to realize we had moved away and handed her off to a complete stranger. Maybe that is not a good thing... She listened to him and answered his questions. She discussed her boots and her pink dress. She smiled for the photos and waved to the cameraman.

It was perfect. It was unbelievable. This certainly couldn't be the B we all know and love.

RB and I watched in amazement as she behaved beautifully. Santa began reading the wish list we had put together for B. "You want a stuffed pony? Okay! New books? We can do that. Is there anything else you want, little girl?"

"Queso. Queso, please."


Yep. There it is.

H-A-DOUBLE L-O-W-DOUBLE E-N Spells Halloween

Part of the fun of having a toddler is being able to dress them however you want - especially when it comes to Halloween. It is the one time of their life where you have total say in whatever ridiculous outfit you want to stuff their chunky legs into... and it is glorious. 

RB dove into the idea of dressing up B, planning matching costumes for the two of them while she was still in utero. First year out, we shoved her in a lobster costume and Chef RB carted her around in a giant pot. 

Halloween 2012

2013 was the year of Duck Dynasty. RB and B joined in on the crazy, though most of RB's motivation was really just to have an excuse not to shave (and drive me nuts) for two months. 

Halloween 2013

I thought we had one - maybe even two if we were lucky - more years of total Halloween control.By four, I knew she would have her own opinion and make her own decision. Surely at just barely two, though, we would still have complete say. Like most aspects of raising a toddler, however, I was wrong and reality was far, far different from our expectations. 

Originally, RB planned to grow out just a mustache (again, in an attempt to annoy me beyond belief), channel his inner Libertarian, and head out with B as Ron Swanson and Leslie Knope. This was short-lived once we realized that even if we were able to find a toddler pant suit (which seemed unlikely, thanks a lot Etsy), our little princess was already boycotting all pants on a normal day. "Dress, please," is a common phrase heard throughout our house. Every morning. All morning. 

Revised plan: Find anything fun and colorful that B would love to wear and wouldn't boycott. 

With a Halloween scheduled packed with all the apple-cider drinking, pony riding, pumpkin-carving a two-year old can handle, we picked out three crucial costumes. Three... I know, it is ridiculous. But this is the year of the happy... and so we had three costumes. 

In my "still way over-estimating life with a toddler," sleep-deprived brain, the costumes would be perfect. For Boo at the Zoo, she would be an adorable peacock posing perfectly still next to the zebra pen and the frog statues, smiling from ear to ear. For Trunk or Treat and actual Trick or Treat, she would shine in her homemade, beautiful Ariel costume. For our Mommy's Group party, she would marvel as a little mini-Audrey Hepburn, bouncing around in a black tutu dress, twirling in her over-sized pearls and quintessential Audrey sunglasses. 

Yeah. 

That didn't happen. 

How the peacock costume should have looked:
Pictures and delusions of life brought to you by
Pottery Barn Kids

Boo at the Zoo hit first, and to prep we showed B her peacock costume for two weeks before the big event. We read books about peacocks and watched some YouTube videos about the animal. We all took turns wearing the Peacock hat, with B taking special delight at her Dad's turn. (Picture not available due to threat of divorce by RB). 

The big day came and we were ready to go. We parked at the zoo, surrounded by tigers and bears and eight-thousand little Elsas climbing out of their parents' SUVs. B jumped out, jabbering about seeing friends and pandas and riding horses (because, obviously, that is something she should get to do every weekend now). 

Confidently, I whipped out the peacock costume and cheerfully let B know it was time to put it on! We were going to be a peacock! It was going to be so fun! Yay, themes! Yay, memories! 

Within two seconds, I am fairly confident all of Atlanta could hear the displeasure coming from this tiny little girl. There was yelling and pleading. "No, pea, please. No, pea, please!" There were tense discussions between Momma and Daddy. There was input from strangers. "Stay strong, Mom!" "We have all been there!" Really? You have been there, sir? You have been trying to wrangle a toddler in the middle of a hot parking lot into a bright teal, harbinger of toddler-angst, felt demon while all of the Metropolitan-area - including your husband - takes bets on who will win this battle of wills? Sure you have.

Boo at the Zoo: Clearly a peacock. 

It took one minute of the high pitched screaming for me to cave. Fine. No peacock dress. You want to go naked to church, I will stand strong. But you don't want to wear some ridiculous costume you had no say in selecting for an event you won't remember in a week? You win. The threat of the peacock costume left its impact, though, and it took another twenty minutes of parking lot, desperate crying for us all to calm down and actually enter the zoo. Note to Atlanta Zoo: Please start selling wine. Immediately. 

By that time, she wouldn't even wear a seasonally-themed dress. So, in we entered with her proudly displaying shiny, blue tights - two sizes too big - and a leotard. The one upside to the whole draining morning was having complete strangers guess what she was. A bruise? A snowflake? A winter ballerina? I don't even know what a winter ballerina is, but apparently that is what B looked like. 

Screaming with happiness
because she got her way. 

Who run the world?

For Trunk or Treat, I had lost all my will. All of it. My plans to Pinterest-up a beautiful, made with love by mom Ariel costume was replaced by my overwhelming desire to not have an epic meltdown in the middle of a church parking lot. So, we went with an oldie but goodie, well-loved, oft-worn Ariel costume. I don't even remember where we bought this thing or who might have gifted it to us. All I know is that she will wear it with no screaming or tears. So, we threw it on, joined our group, and celebrated Trunk or Treat. RB donned his King Triton costume, I stalked B as Ursula, and it all went off without a hitch if you don't count B's instance that she, and she alone, gets to wear a crown. 

Confidence returned after the success of Trunk or Treat, I woke up bright-eyed and optimistic on Halloween morning. We will wear our Audrey Hepburn costume this morning! All the Etsy searching will not have been a total waste! Again - memories! Pictures! Halloween! 

I thought when B screamed at the peacock costume, that was the loudest she could be. I was wrong. So very, very wrong. We sat outside the park for the playgroup party while B threw a tantrum truly fitting for the horror of  All Hallow's Eve. I knew before we started there were some battles not worth fighting and this was probably one of them. Still, I decided to try one trick: Convince B the costume was for a queen. I mean... it comes with a tiara after all. How could it not be a queen costume? 

Stroke of genius. She stopped crying. She smiled. She said please and reached for the outfit. For a full 15 seconds. She put on the tiara, the pearls, let me slide on the gloves and then we were right back to a parking lot show down. Just like Boo at the Zoo, there was yelling. There was crying (mostly mine at this point). There were other moms offering to help and there, mocking me, was that stupid black leotard. 

'Cause the players gonna play, play, play, play, play
And the haters gonna hate, hate, hate, hate, hate
Baby, I'm just gonna shake, shake, shake, shake, shake
I shake it off, I shake it off

Then, she drew a line in the sand. Not only would she not wear an Audrey costume, but she wouldn't wear anything at all. No leotard. No shoes. Nothing. Forget the fact that it was a brisk 50 degrees, this little girl was changing gears and donning her birthday suit for this year's costume.

I am not sure anyone has really witnessed the audacity of toddler-hood until they have seen a two-year old wearing only a diaper, twirling costume pearls in the front seat of a (non-moving, completely off, of course) car, screaming "No clothes! No dress! Bonnie naked only!"

After a few minutes of letting her scream, I walked back to the car.
Me: Are you ready to calm down?
B: Yes.
Me: Do you want to go home?
B: Nooooooooooooo.
Me: Will you wear clothes?
B: Yes. Ariel, please.

"Ariel, please," might as well be cross-stitched and hung on our wall. So we dug out the two-sizes too big, waiting to be returned to Party City, Ariel costume that was laying in the trunk. And I caved. And she had a great time, running around, chasing her friends, dragging her fins. She wasn't Audrey, but she was thrilled.

Halloween night, we didn't temp fate. We popped on her Ariel costume and let her prance from house to house in total bliss.

And as we drove home from our friend's house last night, an exhausted mermaid asleep in our back seat, RB held my hand. Deep in thought, he turned to me and said "Next year, we should do Merida from Brave. She can be Merida, I will be King Fergus, and you can be the Bear Queen. And let's have triplet boys by then to be the princes."

Yeah... you are definitely on your own for that one, buddy.