Last week, as we all returned back to the children's activities, briefly suspended for Thanksgiving break, many of the people in my little life asked me about the big day. I hosted a small gathering for Thanksgiving. That's right. I did the turkey with all the trimmins' between swaddling sessions and toddler smack downs. My cousin and her family, my uncle, and some friends shared the day with us. I was in control, as I like it. I got to review my cook books, online recipes, stuff that I've wanted to try for a year since I first saw it on the Martha Stewart show, and a new recipe to doctor from last week's Parade magazine. In reality, my cousin brought almost half the food, but the feast still felt like mine.
After everything was said and done, I made my hub recap the day with me. And by "recap," I mean talk over every detail of the food I had prepared. What tasted awesome, what was too dry (the stuffing, sadly). And to tell me again what he thought was awesome. I was feeling some kind of natural high that caused me to stay up past 2 am, coming up with what appeared - at the time - to be some knockout blog ideas for future posts (I'm pretty sure it was the fancy holiday wine). The high stayed with me through the weekend when we magically transformed the house from cornucopia central to a winter wonderland and then hosted some friends for a long overdue dinner (the hub's a chef and I'm forever intimidated).
In any event, wow, what a weekend. I was happy. We did it. I got to cook and hub got to clean up after me. When Monday and Tuesday came, I skipped merrily back to preschool and toddler school. Everywhere along the way, the people that know me best in this town inquired about Thanksgiving. Over and over, I was asked questions like these:
"How was dinner, did you use all Martha Stewart recipes?," or
"Did everything come out like Martha Stewart?" and finally,
"Oh, you must be so pleased."
It was almost like I had just birthed a healthy bouncing baby, without complications. Except I was - and am - concerned. What's with all the Martha Stewart references? Over the past two years as a stay at home, mother of three mom, have I inadvertently hitched my identity to the Martha Stewart brand? And what about all of that shameless product promotion? While preparing crafts for the toddler school party, do I just casually reference the features of the Popsicle sticks I'm using? While baking, do I remind my listeners of the wonders of Ziploc baggies for all sorts of air tight purposes?
The truth is, I like watching Martha Stewart. It's rated "G" and it's my go-to show, especially when the kids are milling about. It's on DVR, and the show's content feeds that comfortable part of me that my mom nurtured. Growing up, we baked and baked and baked, and sewed a little, decorated the house, and talked about it all with a disgusting amount of genuine interest. We still do.
The problem now, as I creep toward the dreaded "4-0," is that I'd like to believe that I have a little more edge to my personality than that (as you've probably noted from this blog, there's a lot of things that I'd like to believe). Can't I be one of those gals who's just now rekindling her "need for speed," or mining for dandy garage band downloads?
The second truth is, I was always a slow mover. A solid junior varsity runner. The comforts of home are actually a comfort to me. I suppose that's why I've chosen to do all this home stuff at this time in life. All I need now, I guess, are a couple child rearing segments on Martha.