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Thankful, Grateful, & Moving On.
A reflection on the bittersweet feeling of the holidays
Holidays aren’t my jam.
Growing up, our household wasn’t full of happiness and cheer and yummy smells. Holidays felt like an inconvenience more than anything else.
Thanksgiving was the only time as a child that I remember my father doing anything in the kitchen. It was the one meal a year that he would get off the couch and not just help, but fully take over.
I’m sure it had to do with the fact that my mother was an abysmal cook, but instead of it being a fun, special occasion, it was a day full of tension, bickering, and demands that I peel the potatoes faster.
I would ask if my friends could come over, but I was always refused — it was a day for family, which meant we were forced to endure hours of football before and after the meal. On the years my sister and I were deemed “good,” we could watch the Charlie Brown special before bed.
There wasn't any shopping the next day or a continued buzz of holiday anticipation. It was business as usual — chores and then being sent out of the house until lunch. I would race to the park and meet my friends to relish the extra time off of school and talk about the day before. I remember being distinctly jealous of the kids who had grandparents and cousins that came to…
