I think it was on my third plate of stuffing - 'tis the season to judge, so go right ahead, you Weight Watching wenches - that I realized this year marked my seventh celebrating with the Anonymous In-Laws. There's nothing remarkable in & of that itself, of course, but what struck me is how I've happily adapted many of their family traditions as my own, replacing their weird ones for those of my own (doubly weird) parents.
For starters, there's new food (eggplant parmesan = good) and a lack of others (no gravy = less good, potentially un-American), as well as a few other traditions new to me. With the addition of Master P and my wee darling niece to the festivities, other traditions have taken on more of a kid-friendly bent. Yes, if anyone's Spidey Sense is going off here along the lines of, "Hmm, she's totally going to make an awkward segue here into posting umpty million festive photos of Master P," golf claps to you.
We made a trip to the playground to play & ride the toddler train before embarking on our turkey dinner drive . . .
. . . where, upon arrival, I recommenced my tradition of not learning how to play the obscure, never-ending Italian card games that break out at these gatherings, substituting in my helpless one-year old instead. Like a singleton Southwest traveler avoiding eye contact as fellow passengers board, I feigned emergency interest in my laptop and finally watched the delectable "Downton Abbey" (related note: I'll be answering to "The Dowager Countess Duchess Queen Empress of Austenshire" from now on).
. . . while the eggplant parm and turkey cooked, Master P enjoyed scooting up and down (and up and down, and up and down . . . ) the stairs and toddling into the front door, giving "Turkey Trot" an entirely new, far-better-than-me-running-a-Thanksgiving-race meaning . . .
. . . most importantly, Master P spent the holidays learning about body parts; note above where he helpfully flags the "ears" location. His latest party trick is lifting his shirt to point out his belly button, followed by his attempting to lift my shirt to show everyone where *my* belly button is. So that's fun. It's like a Britney concert circa 2001 with all the midriff flashing here lately - if Britney had a post-turkey-baby pooch and bad attitude, that is.
Belly buttons and Italian food - that's how I roll now. What sort of Thanksgiving party tricks did you get up to, and were there midriffs involved?