Thanksgiving

     Holidays can be tricky. Divorced holidays even more so. I've already been *warned* by friends who are children of divorce that it doesn't get easier. If anything, things become more complicated, they say. I'm sure they're right. My kids are still at the age where they can be told where they're going. When they're teenagers or college kids, they'll have preferences of their own. But my mantra has become: one thing at a time. No point in borrowing worry from the future, right? (Ha ha - woulda been nice if I could have learned THAT lesson a little earlier. My previous life motto was: borrow worry from the future.)

     We have always celebrated Thanksgiving with Kyle's family. They do it up right in grand Southern style. 

     We have always celebrated Christmas with my family. Having a white snowy Christmas is important to me.

     We are continuing this pattern, both of us mindful of the sacrifices, I think. For the kids, it's the same, minus one key grown-up.

     For me, it meant that I was suddenly free during the Thanksgiving break, and obviously, I'm not going to cook up a turkey just for ambience. I have many friends who would - and did - welcome me over for Thanksgiving dinner. My first 'single' Thanksgiving was spent with Heather and her family and her extended family. (I know they were wondering what I was doing there by myself, but since I'd only received the news that my life was over, I wasn't yet ready to discuss it publicly. More mashed potatoes, please.) I've come a long way in the past two years. Gotta admit, however, that it would still be hard for me to eat with the friends of my children. Celebrating with other people's kids would be a painful reminder. I had to turn down a fun Halloween party invite this year - a party I usually attend with my children - because I didn't think I was up to being there without them.

     Last year, my parents flew me up to Minnesota. The start of a tradition, perhaps? The invite was extended again this year, and here I am.

     The hardest part of the holiday was taking Graham and Annie to their dad's house on Tuesday night. I had an early morning flight (read: I left my house at 3:45 a.m. and slept poorly in fear that I might oversleep), so they spent the night with him. After working hard to pack diabetes supplies and assemble a variety of diva outfits all afternoon ('cause you never know if a Texas Thanksgiving will be hot, cold or in between), I had the bags ready to go. We drove over and made the hand-off. I was choked up and had to will myself to remain cheerful as I backed out of the doorway. The mama bear in me wanted to pound down the door and scoop them up. The normal part of me put the key in the ignition. Those pangs of loneliness combined with my flight anxiety into some kind of weird symbiosis, and I felt ill at ease. (Is that a word ... or only a Spiderman word?)

     In a stroke of luck (?), Brother Nixon of the stake high council had called me that very afternoon and made a last minute appointment for Tuesday evening to discuss a stake church responsibility. He and his wife came to my home later that evening, and he extended the opportunity. We chatted a bit. The holiday logistics were discussed. In parting, he prayed, but not for the church opportunity. Instead his words were for me, for my children's safety, and for my peace of mind during this holiday trip. I relaxed.

     The flight itself was silky smooth. Do not underestimate how much this thrilled me. I sat next to a friendly fellow, returning from work in Houston to his home in Iowa. He does industrial distribution for Valspar and his wife is a beautician. He likes cornbread. She likes ham. We chatted a bit about his business adventures around the world (17 hours on a flight to China, for example), and I felt even more at ease. I like sitting next to seasoned flyers. I hope that they can give me context when/if the flight gets bumpy. (One of my best row-mates ever was the wife of a helicopter pilot: "Honey, this is nothing! Don't you worry. I've been practically upside down before," she told me.)  I also like to connect with my row-mates because I figure that if the plane goes down, these are the people I will spend my final moments hugging. You have no idea how many strangers on planes have held my hand, patted my back, or wiped my tears over the years. Nothing creates connection like a silently weeping woman white-knuckling the armrest. I am actually at a pretty healthy place, flying-wise, and make a happy note that I am no longer plagued with nightmares the week before flying. I no longer feel the need to hyperventilate. I no longer automatically burst into tears on take-off. (Instead, I sing the hymn "Eagles Wings". Quietly, and to myself, but yes, I do sing it aloud.) 

     However, much of my healthy flying progress is due to flying with kids. For someone who has experienced panic attacks in the air, I sure have flown a lot by myself with my children. Again, can't count the number of kind folks who have helped me carry car seats and diaper bags and luggage over the years. The kindness of strangers in my life has certainly manifested itself in airports. In all the years we went to Minnesota (springs, summers and Christmases), we only flew with Kyle two or three times. Usually I went up earlier or stayed later and always took the kids by myself. I suppose all that practice has helped to ease the anxiety as well. So, when I fly by myself (my dad's 70th birthday surprise party, last Thanksgiving, going to D.C.), I don't have the non-stop distractions kids provide: "Mom, I spilled my drink", "Mom, where is my cyclops notebook?", "Mom, do you have needle and thread?" You get the picture. Flying by myself is much more peaceful, and thus, strangely, much less peaceful! (I am trying to get to a place where I could - no, make that CAN - fly to Austria with Ulrike. I think that I could do it if she's willing to hold my hand some of the time. 17 hours to China overwhelms me even though I would love to visit the Simmons!)

     So here I am in Minnesota.

     Yesterday I was tired. I went to bed at 5:30 p.m. and slept for nearly 12 hours. Couldn't do that at my Texas home. 

     I woke up, worked out, helped with the meal, played some piano duets with my mom, and realized that despite the me/them dynamic, I am still in a place that I can call home.