Thanksgiving. Had dinner at my parents’ house. Dinner was supposed to be at three. We got there at four. I think we ate at five. We got home around eight, and the kids could not fall asleep (or even hold still long enough to have pajamas pulled on over their heads) for at least half an hour after that. It’s 9:30 now. Two out of three kids asleep.

Dane just headed back to my parents’ to pick up leftovers. At least that’s what I think he’s doing. We didn’t finish our traditional 1000 piece jigsaw puzzle this year, so it’s possible he’s actually gone to work on that rather than to surreptitiously pillage their fridge. We’ll see. Can I go to bed yet? My brain has turned to mush.

We get to do the whole thing again tomorrow. In our family we celebrate Thanksgiving twice. Not joking. Thursday with my parents and everyone they know, Friday with Dane’s parents and assorted relatives. I’ll try to be more entertaining in relating the next round; I don’t think anything funny happened at all today.

We brought a pumpkin cake. (When I announced to my brother over the phone that I planned to bake a pumpkin cake, he said, “Well, to start with, it’s supposed to be pumpkin pie, not pumpkin cake. That’s your first problem.” I didn’t ask what my other problems were.) Owen walked in the door today, immediately got himself picked up by an uncle, and proclaimed, “We brought a pumpkin cake!”

“Tell him who made it,” I urged.
“Dad bought it at the store.”
“Yeah? The store?” asked my brother, who already knew I spent an hour mixing up cake ingredients with two under-four-foot-tall helpers.
“Yeah, he bought it with dollars.”
“No, where did we get it?” I asked again.
“The STORE,” he repeated, clearly tired of explaining.
“Okay, but who mixed it?” I asked. Maybe a new angle would get him to change his story! I should totally have been a police detective.
“Me!” he cried, pointing proudly to his chest with his skinny little index finger.
“You mixed it yourself, then sold it to the store, then your daddy bought it back?” my brother asked.
“Yes.” Owen smiled, apparently glad someone understood him.

Happy Thanksgiving.