Sick and Twisted Thanks

(November 2006)

My Thanksgiving this year will be another Sick And Twisted affair. That’s what I call those occasions where I do loving family-type things with those family members not related to me. These people aren’t even related to my husband. They are related to my husband’s ex-wife. How sick is that? 

After my husband divorced ten years ago, he remained friends with his ex-wife’s family. He and the ex-wife’s brother continued to play music together, and the ex-wife’s parents were always available to watch their grandson when my husband ran into scheduling conflicts. These are wonderful people who continued to accept their ex-son-in-law even when he no longer had legal ties to them, other than through his child. What is even more beautiful is how they’ve so readily accepted their ex-son-in-law’s new wife – me – into their family.

I enjoy this Sick And Twisted relationship. When I was first engaged, it amused me greatly to casually tell my co-workers I had to leave work early to get over to the future-ex-brother-and-sister-in-law’s house to have dinner. I like that I have the ex-wife’s number programmed on my cell phone and that she will call to offer me plants dug from her garden. And now, as national holidays approach and my parents worry that I’m too far away to be with family, I airily tell them that it’s no problem: the ex-mother-in-law-by-marriage made sure to invite us to the family shindig. I think my own parents waver between relief and concern for my mental health. 

We get invited to the ex-father-in-law-by-marriage’s surprise birthday parties, the ex-sister-in-law-by-marriage’s jewelry sales, and my stepson’s birthday parties – hosted by the ex-wife. I see these people a lot more than I see my husband’s blood relatives, and I even see them more than I see most of my own family. They are welcoming and accepting and loving.

It’s twice as nice (and twice as hard) because I’m so much younger than them and so much newer to their family, so they tend to fall all over themselves at Sick And Twisted functions to make sure I’m comfortable in every way. It’s a double-edged sword: I feel part of the family, but – at the same time – like a special guest who will never truly be one of them. I envy the ex-sister-in-law-by-marriage: she married into the family, so ought to be considered an Outsider; however, she’s been with them long enough as a legal member of their clan that she really is like a blood relative. 

In my bid for acceptance this holiday season, I wanted to ask to have Thanksgiving at our house. I had a few reasons: I wanted to return some of the hospitality they’ve given so freely, I wanted to show that I am grown-up and therefore their equal, and I wanted to have dibs on making the pumpkin pie. 

I was a little nervous offering to host. My husband and I decided to make the bid in October at the ex-father-in-law-by-marriage’s birthday party. I worked myself up enough to imagine making the offer and having it be met with an awkward silence, followed by the ex-in-laws elbowing each other to figure out a delicate way to turn down the Outsider’s rude request to break their traditions. Much to my surprise, after I’d timidly cleared my throat and submitted my proposal (suffering the pre-pubescent voice-breaking I’d never even suffered when I was pre-pubescent), the ex-mother-in-law-by-marriage clapped her hands and trilled how fun it would be, and the ex-wife immediately offered to bring the green bean casserole. I realized how silly it was for me to worry that these people would not want to treat us as family when most of them were present at the wedding of their ex-son-in-law to his naïve wife. Plus they were probably thrilled not to have to clean their houses that week.

The ex-wife has already e-mailed me to see what menu items need to be brought. The ex-sister-in-law-by-marriage has called to see when they should arrive. I am rushing around in a flurry of excitement because I get to decorate. I’m finally ready to show off the old bachelor pad I’ve been ever-so-gently annihilating into a home more suitable for a woman and two boys (one twelve, one in his forties). Now I get to prove to the ex-in-laws that I am good enough for both their child his father, the man they cared enough about to keep in their family when he no longer belonged.

I’m channeling Betty Crocker this Thanksgiving. I’ve stored pumpkin pulp in the freezer. And not that canned crap, either: real pulp scraped from real pumpkins broiled in the oven until soft. I’ve peeled off the shell and minced and de-juiced and am ready to add all the fats and sugars necessary for a true homemade pie. Well, the crust is store-bought; let’s face it, I’m not that into it.

I have placemats: practical and easy to clean after the ravages of the two boys, yet beautiful and elegant for entertaining. They match the dishes: a set we got at our wedding . . . a matching set, to replace the mish-mash of dishware my husband and stepson owned before I moved in. I found napkins that match the dishes and the placemats. I have pumpkins to whack in half and fill with chrysanthemums. They nicely complement the colors of the dishware. I have tea lights to sprinkle around the table. They’ll bring together the coordinating silverware and glasses. 

My greatest challenge has come with the fact that I need to bring up an extra table to sit beside our walnut one, and it doesn’t match. My thrifty side was ecstatic at finding a four-dollar bed skirt that is dark brown and therefore compliments. My anal side was dismayed, upon bringing the bed skirt home and unfolding it, to discover that it is only brown on the ruffle: the center is white. My holiday spirit side is determined to happily overcome obstacles; I’ve therefore spent the last few evenings ripping the bed skirt apart and sewing the brown strips together. Now it all matches, albeit it in a rather haphazard way.

My stepson has learned to stop questioning why It Must Match and just help me round up the proper napkins. My husband just smiles when I fret over the abrupt change between the placematted table and the tableclothed table. They may think I’m a little obsessive, but they’re loving enough (and smart enough) not to tell me so.

Perhaps I’m going overboard because I want to impress the ex-in-laws, but I don’t think that’s it: I think I’m just excited about Thanksgiving. Usually, I don’t really care about the holiday, probably because turkey is not my favorite of animals to ingest. I’m also usually nervous that my hosts will demand we go around the table and share what we’re thankful for, and I’ll therefore have to come up with some poetic crap that sounds brilliant.

But this year I really can’t wait for that third Thursday to arrive. I feel like I’m getting into the holiday spirit early, and it’s fun and exciting to make my home a welcoming place and invite people into it. I might fall flat on my face: the pie may burn, the chrysanthemums may droop, the tablecloth may look, well, like a bed skirt . . . but I know I’ll be accepted anyway.

I realize that this is the first Thanksgiving I can put to words those thanks I have in my heart:

I’m thankful for my parents, who ignore the fact that I’m celebrating with someone else’s family and concentrate on the fact that I’m happy.

I’m thankful for my stepson, who helps me rejoice when I am a good surrogate mom and who looks the other way when I’m not.

I’m thankful for my husband, who opens both his heart and his home to me and my annihilating ways.

I’m thankful for his ex-in-laws, who have taught me that a family is not a group of people connected by genes or marriage certificates, but humans connected by love.