Thanksgiving

The number one thing I was not looking forward to seeing this Thanksgiving was baby shoes. I mean, when a newborn baby is wearing tiny itty bitty shoes on their feet. Some strappy, oddly shaped patent leather blip of fabric and rubber that must have been sewn together by children's hands.

My cousin Eric's new wife just gave birth to a baby six weeks ago, and he has a 3 (or 4?) year old son from another lady who's got some kind of autism. And I'm thinking, if that newborn is wearing shoes, I'm going to be so friggen' over this whole family thing. This whole, "we gotta dote on babies and give them shoes and make everything about them."

I'm not used to babies in the family because... well, because I'M the baby. I've always been the baby on both my father's and mother's side. And that's why it makes perfect sense that all of my cousins, now well into their 30s, are procreating and I'm not much of a baby anymore, at age 23.

I'm not a baby in the sense that yes, I am a grown-ass woman physiologically and biologically and mentally, but for a lazy motherfuckin' chick that lives with her mom and dad and spends her free time watching reality TV and feeding her fat ass from mommy and daddy's leftovers, I'm a toddler.

Anywyay, now I'm not a baby. But I'm ok with that, I don't have some complex that demands childlike attention. Quite the opposite, I'm getting edgy to start this "adult life" I've heard about.

So starts Thanksgiving. I'm the lone 20-something relative, well-dressed and smiling and composed, directing traffic from the parents/aunts/uncles, the octogenarians, the newly minted family men/women and da babiez. Plus, there's a 14 year old, my cousin's wife's first child (confusing), who must be stuck in some sort of hell. She's dealing with a 4 year old learning-disabled step brother, her mom's new husband (who's actually amazing, love him), a fucking NEWBORN sister, starting high school at a Catholic school where her step-grandmother is a guidance counselor, and Thanksgiving with my aging crew of family members.

Right off the bat, my uncle is the loose cannon in the room. He is a high school teacher who's slowly declining into, safe to say it, lunacy. Aggressive, unsettling lunacy. He lunges at any opportunity to talk about himself, like when he asks me how I'm doing. He has focused all of his post-divorce energy into the 3rd revival of his band, which he's feverishly excited about. He hates the local government that punishes state workers for doing the best they can. He's quick to fight. He's ready to pop. One might think he's on coke, with the edginess and squirming he exhibits, but he's probably just got a raging case of adult ADHD. He's worn, graying, with Vans sneakers and Elvis Costello glasses. He used to be my absolute favorite uncle. He and I used to play guitar in his home studio when I was 14. The years between then and now have run him into the ground.

He's living with my grandmother, who's become very fragile in her age. She's always been an interrupter, but now it seems that she's just very old and talks whenever the thought strikes her. That, or she's silent, which breaks me up. I don't like that she's beyond conversation. I show her how my iPhone works. I love her so dearly, so thoroughly, and it's a different grandma than I'm used to. I need to treasure those moments.

As it goes, after an unnecessarily heated argument between my cousin and my uncle about why WiFi passwords need to be remembered, things became stagnantly awkward as we ushered people to sit and eat. My poor aunt, in a swirl of tiredness and discomfort, burns the gravy. No big deal. I'm staying out of the line of fire but genuinely asking her about how she prepared the meal. I feel like I really want to start cooking properly. Her advice is to just try, because truth be told, Thanksgiving cooking is really idiot proof. Just stick the turkey in the over, it turns out! I was really surprised.

The littlest baby in the room, newborn Ella, is very, very little. Only six weeks old. She's a tiny thing. I realize that I've never known a newborn before, and looking at her, she looks like a moving doll and not a real baby person. I'm sort of wowed by her.

Here comes the part of the story I've been dying to write: the baby's shoes. I was asked a few days before Thanksgiving about how I'd be celebrating, and I grumbled about my family. I'm a bit discomforted about the new presence of babies, no secret there. I'm always a bit disturbed how adults fawn over babies and shower them with things they A) don't need and B) can't understand. Like presents. And baby shoes. I told my co-workers that I was dreading seeing the newborn in fancy shoes, because no newborn needs shoes. They don't walk, why do they need shoes? Why do parents buy shoes for newborns?

And so when I laid eyes on little Ella with her little pink frilly garter belt headband and dress, I immediately scanned her feet for some stupid baby shoes. And guess what was there?

Tromp L'oeil socks with mary jane shoes!

Nothing could have been more BRILLIANT. Socks that look like shoes. Nonsense avoided. Societal norms maintained. Her's were pink, BTW. Matched her outfit. I gushed to her mother how much I loved them and she agreed, what baby needs shoes? They don't even stay on.

I was pleasantly surprised that my sour puss was put in its place real quick.

The other baby in the room is Aiden, who's like 3 or 4. At one point, he's in child's pose (naturally) on the floor, crying for about 40 seconds. I stare at him on the floor and think, that's how I feel 90% of the time and I wish I could get away with that. That's what being a grown up is like, just as miserable as children but with more reason to feel that way and less ability to express it.

On the plus side for Aiden, he loves the Wiggles, which I learned when the TV turned from yucky football to Wiggles. He was boogying all throughout the meal, looking behind the TV to see if there were more Wiggles back there, singing right along with them in jumbled English. I was proud of him. I didn't even know that he's been held back with his speech development. He'd only recently been able to communicate at all. Way to go Aiden.

My Nonna was cooing over Ella, doing her great-grandmotherly schtick. My mom got all tight-lipped when this started happening. She doesn't ever let her feelings show, which I admire, because that takes a lot of restraint and keeps the calm. She did whisper to me "my mother is so fucking annoying." I think wow, that's not really like her to let that out. My Nonna is a little old woman after all. But, don't get me wrong, she has 100+ reasons to be resented by her family. I respond to my mom "I know." She adds, "I feel so guilty." I just look at her and squeeze her hand. Guilt comes with the territory. I do not chastise this. I am so beyond understanding the deep, ugly issues my mother has with her mother. All I can do is think, despite the grief my mom and I have had, I will never have those ugly feelings toward her. My mother is my role model and I love her to death. I will never have that special kind of guilt. To see the changes that transpired from generation to generation that turned malice to admiration falls on my mom. I respect her so much.

Despite the tongue-biting and the vortex of uneasiness around my uncle, Thanksgiving was a good gathering. We gave thanks for the ability to be there, together. We toasted my aunt for working so hard to put it together.

I felt like I haven't changed since I was 17. I was somehow made to feel like I shouldn't have been there. I wish I had more going on in my life, that I would have caught a plane to be there. I really need to unstick myself from this rut and grow up. I want to be more of person next year.

When I was 17, I lost my virginity the day before Thanksgiving. This is a picture of me that day.