The day is greeted with Mom's homemade cinnamon rolls and the marvels of the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. We use commercial breaks to grab a second (or third) cinnamon roll, sample early tidbits from the kitchen, and refill our coffee mugs. We comment on the synchronization of the Rockette's kicks and how that was Macy's most convincing Santa Claus yet. Talk drifts over Christmas lists and the current football season and this year's outdoor Christmas light design. In the background, Dad (All Hail, The Keeper of the Remote) switches back and forth between the Lions' game and the Westminster Dog Show. We root for Detroit to finally stun everyone and pull off a Thanksgiving miracle (it hasn't happened in a while) and we ogle fluffy dogs whose breed we can't identify but who "have to have eyes in there somewhere". Mom wrestles the turkey (possibly an ostrich - the bird is HUGE) out of the oven and Dad is out of his recliner in a flash, trying to sample a piece of skin without burning his fingers. The table is set and I try to sneak off with the stuffing. Ever year. Really. (I love stuffing.) We gather around the beautifully set table and take turns giving praise to Jesus for where He has brought us in the past year. Then we eat. (Insert the sounds of a heavenly choir.) It is always scrumptious and there is always more food than a small European nation could possibly consume. (In a week.) We clear the table, wash the china, carefully collect the place cards for next year, and play a real-life game of Tetris to ensure all the leftovers fit in the fridge. Our bellies are full. The dining room table is empty and waiting. Bring on the games! Scattergories, Mexican Train Dominoes, Catch Phrase, Pit (and more) are played to the sounds of football coming from the tv and snores coming from the couch. (I won't name names. You know who you are.) We chat and laugh and wander back into the kitchen to break out the pie. Plans are made for Christmas and we drive home with happy bellies and happy hearts.
And what could make it all even better? This year, Nelly was more than just an attendee. She was an exuberant participant and I revelled in her enthusiasm. She became an ardent fan of Nana's cinnamon rolls, was absolutely enthralled by the Macy's Parade (and can now be seen practicing the Rockette's kick), she eagerly offered her Thanksgiving to Jesus before dinner (she said she was thankful for Papa which, of course, made him cry) and she was Andy's able assistant when game time rolled around.
Just relaxing in her pajamas, completely engrossed in the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade
She's growing up. As inevitable and universal as that is, it still sometimes takes me by surprise. Some days I ask her if she will always be my Baby Bean and she hugs me and says "Oh yes, Mama!" But in reality, I know that it's not true. At three years old she isn't really my Baby Bean any more, but that's OK. Now she is my Nelly Belly and I'm discovering that it's even better.
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