Man, it’s good to be back.
We love seeing everyone each Thanksgiving – especially those that we only see once a year, and we love eating and eating and eating, and visiting and visiting and visiting. And we even love the piling up in one big hotel bed and binging on those food show marathons that we never see on the five channels we have at home and eating cereals that come out of plastic tubes with dispensers and make your own waffles with packaged syrup and chasing cousins down the carpeted hallways. But after 1800 miles in the car, there is hardly anything that looms larger on the gratitude scale than ones own bed in ones own house and the sound of the washing machine and dishwasher and the feel of flannel sheets and familiar mattresses and the scent of pine that fills the house. Last year the baby was such a baby that she didn’t really experience the true fun of finding the perfect tree. This year, she did – up until that last moment when she gave into the extreme exhaustion of the five day travel marathon and surrendered her half-eaten custard and called it a night. She’s sleeping still – thirteen hours later, and I’m off to wake her up and start the routine of daily life once again. Thank goodness for holidays where you can break from that routine and visit with those that you love, and thank goodness for the moment you return to the familiar. Pine scented familiar is even better.