A First

Warning: Some dialogue may appear to be whining.

There has never been a Thanksgiving that I haven't been able to hoist the old big girl step-ins and go to work helping prepare the feast to come.

Except this one.

I am better - say even 60% better. But I know if I go to help Mother and Daughter, I will plummet quickly and begin the old writhing and grunting and moaning I have enjoyed so these past four days.

Do I feel guilty? Oh, yes. Yes, I do.

Mother is eighty-five years old. Daughter is used to being told what to do, certainly by me. But she is prone to wander, Lord, I feel it.
Texting, facebooking, sneaking a youtube in on occasion. And the television will be on, because Mother doesn't know how to run a household without it chattering in the corner.

I know Daughter is grown. Uh-huh. And I know Mother tends to move you out of the way and take over when it comes to the kitchen stuff. Boy howdy, does she.

But I also know Mother ain't able to shoulder it, no matter how bossy she can become. And I'm not sure Daughter can stand up to her Nanny.

I could not have stood up to either of my grandmothers. I would  have been left in the dust, dazed and amazed, trampled by walkers in the race to get her done.

But maybe Daughter is made of stronger stuff.

Lord, let's hope so.