Turkey is for family

I often tell my kids, my friends, my family, anyone who will listen to me, that the hardest part of being married is the holidays.

In fact, the holidays may be the hardest part of life in general (other than major illnesses and tragedies, of course).  Or unless you're a man.  For us womenfolk, the holidays are all about planning, shopping, cleaning, cooking, baking, worrying, obsessing, perfecting, stressing, decorating and, oftentimes, peacemaking. Sometimes, there is drinking. For men, it's usually about the football.

That's because we're all trying to achieve the impossible -- we're either trying to recreate the perfect holidays of the memories of our youth, or we're trying to invent the ones we never had. The ones we see on TV, that mythical perfect holiday dinner with the turkey in the center of the table with the white table cloth with everybody smiling and happy.

Isn't that how your mama or your grandmama did it?

I have wonderful memories of Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners at my Grannie's house, which was next door to our trailer. Grannie had a huge oval wooden table that she set meticulously with the lace tablecloth hand-crocheted by Grandpa's sister, Aunt Irma Lee, her fine china and silver that had been passed down for generations and crystal goblets. A plantation child, Grannie also had cool little antique gadgets, like a crystal knife rest which kept the butter from getting on the tablecloth, and individual salt and pepper wells.

The adults would drink wine (probably Boone's Farm, but OK), and my brother and I would get grape juice to pretend. Grandpa would repeatedly warn us not to back our chairs into the glass china closet, and we would eat our turkey, cranberry jelly, sweet potatoes with the little marshmallows melted on top, Grannie's oyster dressing, cornbread dressing, peas, fruit salad and brown and serve rolls. My sister, the oldest, would make cherry pies that my brother and I loved.

And yes, I have tried to recreate those meals in my own house with my own husband and children. I have Grannie's lace tablecloth, but it's too tattered to use anymore. And I set my own meticulous table with my own wedding china and crystal and my great-grandparents' silverware. It's my version of Norman Rockwell.

But when my daughter was about 6 or 7, she asked us why we don't put the turkey on the table all pretty like they do on TV. It was our custom to bring the turkey slices to the table on a large platter, after my father-in-law had taken it the bird into the laundry room to carve it up with the electric knife. So we humored her. The Coach brought the big, brown beautiful bird to the table, we oohed and aahed for a moment, then Pappy took it to the laundry room to cut up.

Of course, when it comes to the holidays, the most important thing is family. But that's also the most difficult part of getting, being and staying married. Just like on your wedding day, sides must be chosen. Lines must be drawn.

At whose house are you going to eat on Thanksgiving? On Christmas? Where will you eat dessert? And it starts even before the wedding. I've seen my stepdaughter and stepson sit at a table already rubbing their too-full bellies because they're trying to give a little to everyone and make everybody happy. It can't be done.

I can clearly remember the last time I had a holiday dinner with my own family -- my mom, my stepdad, my sister and her husband, my brother, his wife and their children. It was November, 2000. The woman who had promised to let us adopt her child had just reunited with her boyfriend. Our nursery was all decorated, but remained empty.

My family, feeling sorry for me, came to my house and let me cook for them. It was nice. We all got along. We made wonderful memories. We were blessed with our baby girl just two months later. But my brother would not live to see another Thanksgiving.

All the others have been about my husband's family -- his parents, his children. And, because that's the way we decided to roll, his ex wife, her husband, his children, Later, it came to include my stepson's wife and her parents.  Yes, they'll all be coming to my little house on Thanksgiving. We'll go to the ex wife's house on Christmas Eve. Last year was the opposite.

And I realized the other day that this holiday season will be my first. I mean, "mine." For the first time in more than 20 years, this will not be my mother-in-law's holiday where she dictated all the rules -- what to cook, when to eat, what to eat, how to eat. Where to eat.

In the early days, I capitulated. I let her have Thanksgiving at her house in exchange for Christmas. That was fine. My mom even lived in the same town in Mississippi, so it was easy to go there. Except for Lora's first Thanksgiving. She needed a nap before the big meal. The mothers refused to allow it and repeatedly questioned why in the world I thought my child should take a nap. They found out when she fell asleep at the table during dinner.

They would then come to my house for Christmas. But of course, it was still "her" holiday. She actually said that one time. "This is MY Christmas." The "not yours" was left unspoken. So we cooked her way. We went to church at her time (4:30 p.m. on Christmas Eve, which I hated). We woke up when she decided. And we ate what and when she demanded.

Then Hurricane Katrina hit and the in-laws lost everything and moved in with us. I still did my best to let her have "her" holiday.

Now I don't have to.

My Thanksgiving will be in my house, cooked in my tiny kitchen (without a dishwasher mind you) and served on my table with my china and silver -- just like my Grannie used to do. I'm trying to create memories for my daughter, traditions that she will want to carry on to her family -- but probably have to give up once she gets married.

That's just the way it is. Pick your battles, hon.

It's time

The first time she came to live with me, she held every single possession she owned in a small plastic grocery bag in one hand.

A couple of pills, her jewelry, a few changes of underwear, a change of clothes, her toothbrush and a few items for her face. And a broken heart.

Hurricane Katrina had taken everything else, washing onto the shores of Waveland, Mississippi, that summer of 2005 and wiping away virtually every home, including that of my in-laws, Jane and Pappy.

A year and a week later, they rented a U-Haul truck and moved into a nearby apartment complex. Jane and I, who were friendly but never close, had begun to butt heads a little too much for our menfolk's liking. The walls crowed all of us. It became harder and harder for us to get along.

 It was time, my father-in-law Pappy said.

The second time she came to live with me, she was but a whisper of herself. Old, frail, weak, this time she showed up alone, a widow with a walker, a boat-load of prescription medications and a dialysis schedule. The very nice assisted living center she had lived in and loved had determined that she needed more care than they could give her.

It was time, they said.

I had just been laid off from my job, so I had the time. We had the space. And, well, no choice really. So she moved into our spare bedroom and made it her own. We got her a smaller bed and a big screen TV. We put rails on our toilet, handles on the wall, pillows for all of her chairs. And a beeper so she could summon us when she needed us.

Define, "need."

So for the past 16 months I have been an occasional journalist and a full-time mother-in-law keeper. I have gotten her up, gotten her dressed, gotten her fed, given her medications and pretty much catered to her every want and need. Except for holidays and non-baseball days, I have gotten her in the car and driven her to her dialysis treatments across the river. Then two hours later, I went back and picked her up.

And I have put my life on hold. Our family on hold. We scheduled ourselves around her and her needs and wants. And that damn beeper.

And we did OK. We developed a routine. Although it's not what we would have chosen, not what we wanted to do, Marty and I accepted our lot in this life and did the best we could with it. I did the best I could.

But over the past few weeks everything got harder. Simple tasks, things she was able to do just weeks ago, became difficult, then impossible. She was no longer mobile, no longer able to assist in her own care. And I couldn't do any more than I already was.

It was time, her doctor said.

It's time, I said.

It's time, said her son.

Jane, however, disagreed. A quick little visit in December did nothing to warm her heart toward the place.

"They're a bunch of old people," she said. "I won't go. I'll just stop going to dialysis and die."

But as she saw herself become less and less able, she became more and more resigned. Still sad, still scared and nervous, she grew accustomed to the idea, then optimistic.

"I think I'm getting excited," she told Coach last night. "Maybe I'll make some friends."

So today we packed up a few of her things, and her, and drove her to a very nearby nursing home. She was greeted there by a lovely lady we have watched grow up, who did her best to make a nervous and scared Jane feel comfortable and a guilty Lori and Marty feel better.

I was comforted immediately. I am no stranger to nursing homes. For virtually my whole life, my grandparents took me to the nursing homes in Houma where they would entertain the "old folks." Grannie would play the ukulele and Grampa would play his banjo and they would sing these kooky old songs from the 20s and 30s. I would dance and try to sing. Sometimes I would play the piano or the organ. And I would try not to look at the sad faces.  Both of them died in a nursing home, years apart.

Several years ago when luck gifted me with the greatest, sweetest dog in the world, I signed her (and me) up for the Visiting Pet Program. For two years Lollee and I would visit local nursing homes and hospitals where she would allow herself to be pet and loved for as long as anyone wanted. I, however, often wanted to run from the halls screaming. I had to quit long before Lollee would have.

This place, however, is warm and inviting and doesn't smell. The faces are friendly. And her room is nice. Enough.

I spent the time putting her clothes away, lining up her signature stuffed monkeys above her bed, adding personal touches. There isn't enough room for ALL of her clothes. The woman has 14 pairs of white pants and nearly a dozen pairs of blue jeans for Godssakes. But we'll bring some more of her pictures over the next few days.

Meanwhile, she joined a few ladies for lunch. As I approached, I noticed that her chair was a little too far from the table. She had too far to go with her fork from her plate to her mouth. Her drink cup was too full. She can't pick it up when it's heavy like that. They had cut up her beef, but there was no way she would be able to eat that rice. I helped her eat a few bites of the roast beef.

"It's not better than mine, is it?" I kidded her.

"It has more flavor," she replied.

Of course it does.

After a quick trip home to get a few things, we found her in the cafeteria drinking coffee. Except, they put it in a plastic cup, filled to the brim. There was no way her shaky hands would be able to drink that. I went back to her room for the straw cup they gifted her with and asked someone to put some fresh, hot coffee in it.

OK. I hovered. I did. Like a mother hovering over her child when they go off to college.

It was hard to let go. As much as I'm ready to, as much as I want to -- NEED TO -- it was hard to. She's been my charge for so long, though, I didn't quite know how.

But I have to. It's time.

And now Marty and I can go back to being us, to living our lives without railings on the toilet. We no longer have to go outside to the side door to go to bed at night. We can go to dinner as a family. We can go to a movie together. We can go away for a weekend. We no longer have to live with the fear of a poorly-timed beep in our lives. And Lora can go back to just being a kid who doesn't have to take care of and worry about Grandma in the other room all the time.

We have our lives back.

We left Jane sitting in the cafeteria with a few other ladies, drinking coffee and preparing to play Pokeno. I searched her face for sadness or fear or anxiety. I saw none. And I looked back several times to make sure. She was at peace. So were we.

And it was time to go.