I don’t normally traffic in the saccharine parental type of writing, the kind that is overflowing with sunshine, rainbows and unicorns and pretends as though there’s never a moment in your life as a parent when you’d ever want to lock yourself in a room alone just to get away from the insanity that comes hand-in-hand with child-rearing.
But it’s Thanksgiving.
Even though I’m going to be trying my best to not stress out too much when The Spouse and I prepare dinner at our house on Thursday (the last time I became so stressed out while making Thanksgiving dinner, I had sisters-in-law shoving glasses of wine into my hand and telling me to chill), even though I’m frequently jaded, that doesn’t mean that I don’t get sentimental.
And sentiment is what fueled my Parents and Kids column entitled, “What This Mom is Thankful For.” . . . Now I’m off to write about “Miracle on 34th Street” for another web site and then allow the 60-year-old film’s buoyant sentiment help me coast through dinner prep.
But it’s Thanksgiving.
Even though I’m going to be trying my best to not stress out too much when The Spouse and I prepare dinner at our house on Thursday (the last time I became so stressed out while making Thanksgiving dinner, I had sisters-in-law shoving glasses of wine into my hand and telling me to chill), even though I’m frequently jaded, that doesn’t mean that I don’t get sentimental.
And sentiment is what fueled my Parents and Kids column entitled, “What This Mom is Thankful For.” . . . Now I’m off to write about “Miracle on 34th Street” for another web site and then allow the 60-year-old film’s buoyant sentiment help me coast through dinner prep.
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