First Thanksgiving

Warning: boring mommy documentation post ahead.

The boys' first Thanksgivings were fantastic. We celebrated at Hubby's parents' Thursday, then hosted for my parents, brother and girlfriend, cousin, niece and two great-nephews.

On Thursday, the boys played with their older cousin and generally had a blast. Scampy said his name for the first time, and both babies walked and walked some more. After failing to take a nap all day, Impy fell asleep at the table. Scampy took a nap in early afternoon, and sat at dinner socializing (e.g., happily sitting in his chair, drinking water out of his straw cup, occasionally babbling, and pulling at the tablecloth).

Today, the boys played with their older cousins-once-removed, stole their cousins' binkies (and had theirs stolen in return), and romped around the house (all baby gates were in use to segregate dogs from unfamiliar visitors). Impy fell asleep at the table after fighting a nap all afternoon (he did try some stuffing before he fell asleep with his mouth hanging open - hee!). Scampy took a nap in early afternoon, and hung out binking and drinking water during dinner. He gave Daddy a "what the hell do you think you're doing?" look when hubby dared to offer some stuffing. Scampy does not approve of rampant food experimentation. Later, Impy walked up to Grandma and spit out a piece of kibble -- ptooey! Errrr, yikes.

Both days, our babies were repeatedly bowled over by their older, toddler cousins. Neither cried once -- we speculate that since they're used to dealing with a very sweet but clumsy-pushy 105 lb dog, a few strapping cousinly types are nothing. Despite recent inlaw problems (and permanent drama between my brother and niece), everyone got along swimmingly. Plus, hubby cooked a stupendous dinner.

I'm bursting with thanks.

I'm avoiding specifics

I'm having some...issues with my in-laws. So as not to bore myself, I will recap the history of my relationship with my in-laws thusly:

First seven years: Llamas singing, birds weaving braids of spaghetti through our hair, all the world made of sweet, sweet nougat.

Eighth year: Hmm. Something's amiss here. No, nothing's amiss. I'm a crazy person. She's a bitch! No, I'm a crazy person. Well, and she's a bitch. Oh, whatever. Everything's fine. Things could be much worse. Things have been great for seven years -- I must be blowing this out of proportion. It's FINE. But it's really not.

Ninth year, first months: Good to see you! Avoid, avoid, avoid, avoid. It's been so long! Avoid, avoid. We've been SWAMPED! Avoid, avoid, avoid.

Ninth year, last months: CUNT.

Tenth year, first months: These people are pure evil.

Tenth year, last months: Okay, maybe not evil. I just don't trust them.

Eleventh year, first months: Okay, I don't trust them. But they can be nice. And I'm a crazy person. Maybe everything will be fine.

Eleventh year, last months: Something's not right. No, everything's fine. I'm a crazy person! Just. Let. It. Go. Already. They're not letting me let it go. Oh, whatever. I'm very lucky and happy -- why does it matter? Shut up -- things have been so much worse! But still...AUGHHHH!!! It needs to be fine. Oh, holy yell, I am just tired.

They're just shortchanging us, and worse, shortchanging our children. And we keep trying, and they keep shortchanging, and it makes no sense. Except that they apparently have a finite pool of interest and care apportioned to grandchildren, and said pool is already spoken for.

We're not stopping, though. If the day ever comes where the boys see the treatment disparity and are hurt by it, we'll have to re-evaluate. Until then, I am making nice as stubbornly as I possibly can. I am the irresistable force of breezy unconcern. I'm the immovable object of sang froid (and I don't even speak French)!

Ruthlessly kind are my watchwords. There's no "bigger person" here. No, right now I'm a very small-on-the-inside person. A tiny, tiny angry person with pointy little gesticulative ratfists and a squeaking, vengeful ratvoice who would so love to have a rational conversation with these people and calmly, constructively discuss how they're hurting us and ultimately shortchanging themselves, and barring this, tell them to pound salt.

Sometimes tiny-on-the-inside, ruthlessly kind ratpeople write very long sentences.

4 legs good, 2 legs good

Both boys walked today for the first time. They've taken a few stutter-steps here and there over the past few weeks, but today, egged on by Impy's lady friend (AKA his PT), they took three steps each.

It was weirder than I expected. It seems to me that crawling was a more life-changing milestone, since it meant mobility and all the life changes that entails. Walking is just crawling with a couple fewer limbs, isn't it? Yet walking is generally considered more of a big deal. Seeing them walk affected me, but I'm not quite sure how or why. Must ponder.