Hostess

So, Thanksgiving happened...  It was good.  A good tornado. 

It felt sort of like coming into our own as a household, or even as adults, to host this holiday in our house.  All the work to get a new tablecloth, and then a tablecloth pad, and then votive candles, and then make flower arrangements -- it was all worth it.  The table looked awesome.

My husband sat at the head of the table, expressed his thanks, and said a brief prayer.  I sat to his left and was proud of him, of both of us.  And since I can read my mother's thoughts, I can say that she was thrilled and surprised that he did a prayer. 

It's weird to be in these traditional roles, since I don't think of myself as a traditional woman.  I mean, why didn't I sit at the head of the table?  Why didn't he obsess over the table centerpiece?  I don't know, I just know it sort of fell into place this way and seemed to go okay.

Well it went okay except I walked in on a conversation in which a loved one was bragging about something being a good thing, while in fact I know it to be a very bad thing not worthy of bragging.  So that kept me up late into the night as my mind turned it over and over.  If I were a good blogger I'd tell you all the details, but for now, this is all I'll say.