Thanksgiving: A Series of Unfortunate Events

Morning

It is Thanksgiving morning. Roughly 6 am. I awake to a shooting pain on the top of my hand. A pain that is precise, small, deep and commanding. I am on my side, one arm under my pillow and the other up under my chin. My eyes flutter open to see, mere inches from my face, a black creature of some kind on the top of my hand. Not knowing what it is, and too groggy to process the information my eyes are absorbing, I instinctually--and with the adrenaline of a mother lifting a car off her child--raise my other hand up from under the pillow and swat the creature away with rapid and blunt force.

My eyes close again. The pain is getting worse. Tighter, smaller, but stronger. A specific point on the top of my hand where the crease makes my wrist. I try to ignore the pain and allow sleep to take back over. My mind begins to wander. What was that large, black creature I saw so briefly before heroically batting it across the room? It seemed black as night. And...triangular? Fan shaped? What if--I begin to panic and my eyes shoot open--it was a spider?

Thinking now of my two precious children sleeping down the hall, and fearing the spider--who has now been batted toward the door and could be making his way to their sweet fleshy skin--I sit up. I look toward the floor beside the bed. I know I swatted in this direction; where is he?

"Meg...." Jim grumbles through a deep slumber. "What are you doing?"

"Something bit me," I whisper, poised and ready to pounce.

"What do you mean...something..." He dozes momentarily before awakening to finish, "Bit you?"

With my eyes still combing the floor of our bedroom, I hold up my arm so he can see my wrist.

"It doesn't look like you've been bitten," he exclaims. "It looks like you've been shot!"

Only then do I think to finally look at my wrist. I bring it close to my face and see the damage. A large lump, swelling by the second, and in the center: the bullet hole.

"Mother of god!" I declare, and pull my legs up under me as though the bed is my life raft in a sea of sharks.

Jim springs and quickly makes his way around to my side of the bed, quietly and intently searching for the lone gunman.

"Well, how are we supposed to find anything over here?!" he exclaims. His eyes dart around the various piles of magazines, shoes, maternity clothes intended for donation, used contact lenses and an open piece of luggage I've yet to fully unpack.

"Are you freaking kidding me? Now's not the time!" I yell. "Find that creature!!"

Jim rifles through the mess, throwing up socks and scarves and magazines like a mower running through a pile of leaves.

"Found it!" he cries.

And there, against the baseboard, having clearly been batted across the room and slammed against the wall with the force of a maniac, twitching in a state of shock, was the biggest ass wasp you've ever seen.

Afternoon

The pain on my wrist is subsiding slightly. The swelling is waning. The bullet hole is closing. I'm rushing around to prepare the house and my little family for a Thanksgiving visit from my in-laws.

I sit for a moment with a pad of paper to go over my list of things to do today: I've put the finishing touches on lunch. I've cleaned the house from top to bottom. I've bathed both the girls. I've done two loads of laundry and a load of dishes. I've decorated the house with all my favorite holiday decor. I've lit candles. I've set the table. And, I've victoriously watched a four pound wasp spin around and around in circles as it made its way down our toilet.

I've nothing left to do but shower.

The girls are resting quietly upstairs. I contemplate a glass of wine, but think better of it. I make my way upstairs. I take a long, steamy shower, mentally enumerating what is left to do before my husband's parents ring the doorbell.

I realize I'm ready.

I get out of the shower and walk into our bedroom, still worried I'll find a hive, but instead, find my husband passed out on our bed. Poor thing, I think. He helped capture my predator in the early hours of the morning. He helped pull all the holiday decorations from the attic. He helped bathe the girls. And he was the executioner who pulled down the handle on the toilet after I happily tossed in the big, black creature by one of his twitchy wings.

I decide to let him sleep.

I dress quickly, towel dry my hair, and back out of our room. I carefully close our bedroom door and creep toward my oldest daughter's room. She's sleeping peacefully. Heavily. Beautifully. I stand in her doorway feeling tight in my chest.

Today is Thanksgiving. It's about being thankful. It's about family. I watch her chest rise and fall with shallow breath. I need to dry my hair. I need to put on makeup. But I can't seem to leave her doorway.

Impulsively, filled with the spirit of Thanksgiving, I decide I want to lie down with her and rest a bit. I tip toe over to her bed. She doesn't move an inch. I carefully shimmy my way onto the bed beside her. She doesn't move an inch. I carefully thread my arm behind her head and bring her close to my chest. She doesn't move an inch. We lie there, embracing, peaceful, calm. My eyes begin to feel heavy. And just as I drift off to sleep, thankful for this moment, reveling in my existence, my child's eyes pop open and she realizes I'm beside her.

"MOMMY!" she declares with the excitement of a thousand three year olds.

And as she lifts her body to hug me back, so happy I'm beside her, she rams her big, hard head smack into my mouth.

I cry out in pain. My lip immediately begins to throb and swell. I break our embrace and run out of her room and down a flight of stairs and into the kitchen to grab ice. I quickly wrap a cube in a paper towel. I hear my daughter crying from her bed, heartbroken she has hurt me and that our snuggle time is over.

I get the bleeding to stop. With ice melting in my hand, I make my way to the stairs, thinking I have time to get to my child before her sobs wake her father and sister from their slumber. As my foot hits the first step, the door bell rings.

I open the door to see my in-laws standing bright-eyed and ten minutes early.

"Oh dear!" my mother-in-law exclaims. "What happened to your face?!"

Evening

My in-laws have left. The welt on my wrist is nearly gone. My swollen lip has subsided enough that I no longer lisp.

The baby is sleeping peacefully upstairs. Holiday music plays softly in the living room as my oldest child paints quietly beside the fireplace. My husband pours me a well-deserved glass of wine.

Despite the feast at lunch, my child complains of hunger.

"I'll make you pasta," I say as I affectionately rub her head.

"Oh! I love pasta," she says, eyes as big as saucers.

This I know. Of all things I make her, she loves my bow tie pesto pasta the most. It secretly thrills me to make it for her, even though I truly hate to cook.

I turn on the stove and place a pot of water on it. Jim brings me my glass and we stand in the kitchen talking about the day.

His parents were good. The visit was nice. The girls were the model grandkids. We feel thankful.

My daughter wanders into the kitchen and hugs my leg as I pour the noodles into the boiling water. I bend down to kiss her. The day is winding down.

I pull a noodle from the rolling water, blow on it and bring it to my mouth. The pasta is ready.

"Go get in your seat, sweetie," I say to her and she makes her way into the dining room and crawls up into her chair.

I turn off the range. The flame extinguishes. I find the lid to the pot and place it on the top. I bring the pot to the sink and prepare to drain the water. But as I tip the pot up on its side, my stung wrist begins to throb and my hand slips slightly. Instantly, boiling water is rushing over my other hand and I yelp, jumping back in pain. As I do this, my finger touches the boiling hot pan and is instantly seared.

I throw the lid, and the pot, and what's left inside of it, angrily into the sink. I storm out of the kitchen holding my finger.

"Run it under cold water!" Jim yells from the kitchen as he gathers wet, hot noodles from the sink.

Minutes later, my finger--still beet red--feels better. Good enough to carry out the rest of my child's favorite meal. I stir in the pesto. I scoop out a portion for my daughter and put it in front of her at the table.

There I sit, wasp stung wrist, fat lip and burned finger, watching my child inhale the pasta I made for her.

"How's your wrist?" Jim asks across the table.

"Better," I say somberly.

"And your finger?" He asks, looking the ice pack I have resting on it.

"Better," I shrug.

"And your lip?" my sweet child asks between bites.

"Better," I respond.

"Good," she says with her mouth full. "I'm sorry I did that."

I laugh. Impressed by her in a whole new way.

"And mommy..." she says quietly.

"Yes," I say, bringing the wine to my lips.

"Thank you for this," she says, pointing to her plate.

And for a moment, I almost think her sweetness, her innocence, her beauty and her kindness are enough to erase all the pain I have endured today.

And it just almost is.

For that, I am thankful.