Thanksgiving makes for good stories

We were talking on the phone at the time of his whining and my eyes began to well with tears, not in sadness or regret or even shame. No, I was holding in mirth and it was making me near to bursting with delight at hearing his bellyaching. I knew from the time he was out of the high chair and into his booster seat that he was totally uncomfortable with any holiday dinner conversation that didn’t involve football, torturing his siblings or jokes. I wasn’t concerned with any dislike of sentimentality and continued to force him and the rest of our offspring to talk about those terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad feelings of gratefulness, thankfulness, joy and love. Making my kids squirm was the best part of my Thanksgiving. I’ve told you, I’m a terrible mother.