Transitioning

Is it a measure of our times that I re-read the title to this post and wondered if gender identity was implied?  I ponder and pause and parse what I've written because I've spent the last week with my children... and they never miss an opportunity to deconstruct and interpret and tease me about my verbiage. 

I love every embarrassing minute of it.  It comes with love and respect and respect for the depth of the love we share.  They know that I can take it, they send it my way with smiles and twinkly eyes, and they are always always always on the alert for any sign that they've hurt my feelings.  Most important, they are very funny and very right.  I'm so involved in the moment that, as TBG reminds them, I often don't let the facts get in the way of a good story. 

(I am aware of that as a fundamental truth to much of my life and so I made I conscious decision when I started The Burrow to type only the absolute truth.  Many a post would have been enhanced had I let my imagination run free.... but these posts represent the truth as I remember it, facts as I perceived them. 

 Just thought you might like to know.)

I spent seven wonderful days with SIR and Little Cuter and their sub-cuter, FlapJilly.  When it was too cold and windy we stayed inside with a fire and watched the baby coo and squeal.  When there was food to be purchased I drove down the street to my favorite grocery store where I was greeted with free fresh squozed (cf Daddoooooo) orange juice and a tasty morsel from the on-site bakery. 

SIR worked hard and came home worked harder as a host.  He's gracious and thoughtful and knows more about beer than anyone I've ever met. I've learned about shandy and pilsner and hops and malts and bourbon aging and TBG enjoyed a different brew each evening, after FlapJilly's evening of squealing.

Have I mentioned how wonderful it all was?

The baby wore turkey clothes and the rest of us were in sweat pants.  Little Cuter makes the world's best mashed potatoes, her green and orange veggies were scrumptious, and I had no room for the cranberry relish recipe which spent the morning and early afternoon in the crock pot, sharing the kitchen table with the brand new electric roaster.  Everything came out on time and, unlike her paternal grandmother, she didn't burn the rolls.

We traveled home on Saturday night, delayed by a missing panel on the first plane and crawled into bed at midnight or 1 or 3... all these time changes are quite confusing to me.  I admired my Fall decorations as I passed through the living room last night, and I smiled at them this morning, and then Elizibeth brought Mr 9 and Mr 11 over to redecorate for me.

I'm transitioning slowly this year.  Usually by this point I have the Brownie List labels printed, the greeting cards located, the stickers purchased.  Then, again, I haven't traveled for Thanksgiving I decades.  Coming home late and rising even later, I blew by the living room and headed straight to the garage.  I moved boxes and tossed empty ones and brought a small measure of organization to the work ahead. 

By the time the boys arrived, Mr 11 pushing the timer on his inherited-from-his-mother iPhone, I had a plan.  Recycle this pile.... unstuff the scarecrows.... take a chocolate break.... pull down the boxes from the shelves.... bring out the Fall decor from all over my house. It went on like that for two hours, at minimum wage.  They climbed ladders and flattened boxes and carted Santas out and pumpkins in. I wrapped up Fall and brought out winter.... 80 degrees and sunny and wearing shorts winter, but winter all the same. 

We carried one box of inside décor to the kitchen table, but spent most of our time outside, hanging giant ornaments on the palo verdes and the Texas Mountain Laurel and the willow.  It's obvious that they were hung by short people, but the joggers passing by complimented us nonetheless.  The boys held the wreath steady as I twined the wire around the mailbox and TBG said it all looked fabulous as he drove home from lunch, in between football games.

Two hours of work got the heavy lifting and ladder climbing out of the way.  Amster took the boys to spend their earnings and I unpacked the box on the table, hanging Santas on door handles and polishing silver candlesticks and napkin rings.  I found the little magnet men TBG and I have had since college, and they are happy above the fireplace.  I've got tiny stuffed bears climbing the faux grandfather clock in the dining room and my Italian glass 3' green tree with red balls atop the lass table.  There will be more happy discoveries as I go through the rest of the boxes but for now I'm going to be content with folding the now-washed-scarecrow-outfit and putting Fall to bed.

Tomorrow I begin to bake.