I'm Lindsay Ferrier, a Nashville writer with a passion for family travel, exploring Tennessee, and raising kids without losing my mind in the process. This is where I share my discoveries, along with occasional deep thoughts, pop culture tangents and a sprinkling of snark. Want to get in touch? Use the CONTACT form at the top of the page.
December 1, 2008
>
Thanksgivings here at the Ferrier house are a little different.
Hubs generally works all day (since local news never stops, television reporters end up choosing one or two holidays to take off and end up working the rest), then comes home that evening for our Thanksgiving feast. My stepdaughters visit their mom two states away, since they like to spend Christmas here at home with their little brother and sister.
Therefore, I end up begging my parents and grandmother to come and visit me each year. I absolutely love cooking for Thanksgiving, but I need people who will eat more than garlic bologna and Gogurt if I’m going to prepare a feast.
The last few years, my parents and grandmother have happily obliged and driven up to visit from Atlanta. I’m glad we have family members to spend the holiday with and fill our traditional Thanksgiving table. But despite the good conversation and extended family coziness, I can’t help but feel like something’s missing. Something’s not quite right.
I realize what it is when I hear a noise at the front door and immediately think, “Oh good. The girls are home.” And then I remember that they’re with their mother. Later, we’re all eating cake and I start to get up in order to call the girls down so that they can enjoy some, too. Then it hits me again. They’re not here.
I miss them. I miss their presence. I miss their laughter and their stories. They’ve only been gone two days, but it has been two days too many. It doesn’t feel right here without them.
As a parent, I hear all the time from older people to enjoy every moment with my youngest two, because it will all change in an instant. As a stepmother, I know that what they say is true. One moment my stepdaughters held my hand and sat in my lap, and literally overnight, I lost that part of them forever.
What I didn’t realize, though, was that we would eventually get our girls back. They’re not the same little girls who loved to braid my hair and wrestle on our king-sized bed. But they’re also not the hormone-filled, angst-ridden woman-children who not so long ago acted like they couldn’t get away from their dad and me fast enough. They now are young adults, through and through. They still spend the bulk of their free time out with friends. They still make typical teenage mistakes. But they also like to hang out with their family again. They don’t seem to be under the impression anymore that Hubs and I are essentially social and intellectual losers. They listen to what we have to say. They tell us about what’s going on in their lives. We enjoy spending time together.
I realized just a few months ago that almost overnight, we seem to have gotten through the hardest part of the teenage years with them (fingers crossed). And now I’m reveling in it. I got my girls back, people. I got them back as young women. It feels really, really good.
And I can’t wait until they come back home. I can’t wait.
This post originally appeared on Parents.com.
This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.