Thanksgiving: A Comedy of Errors Served With Mashed Potatoes

Thanksgiving — our annual family marathon disguised as a meal. Every year, we tell ourselves this time will be calm, organized, peaceful. And every year, chaos just sits in the corner giggling, sharpening a butter knife.

My mother, commander of holiday logistics, declared that dinner would be at 12:30. A very deliberate, non-negotiable 12:30.
So naturally, I told my husband noon.
Which is marriage code for we will absolutely arrive around 1, frazzled, breathless, and acting like that was the plan all along. Tradition is important.

But the real chaos starter didn’t even happen on Thanksgiving — it started the day before, when I decided to go grocery shopping. On purpose. (Why?!?) The store was a war zone: shopping carts crashing like bumper cars, half the aisles empty, and one woman fighting for canned gravy like it held the secrets of immortality. I escaped with groceries, trauma, and a new understanding of survival.

I got home, feeling victorious… and promptly slipped on the icy stairs. Full cartoon wipeout. Groceries airborne. Cranberries rolling away like they were escaping the country. My back hit the ground so hard it filed a noise complaint. Now I’m walking around like a retired pirate with old injury stories and weather predictions based on pain levels.

But still — we packed everyone up and headed to Thanksgiving like the chaotic circus troupe we are.

The kiddos didn’t enter the house — they launched into it. Running, screaming, sliding, bouncing off relatives like pinballs. Someone disappeared under the dining table. Someone else staged a cookie heist. At one point I think the children unionized and claimed the living room in the name of Anarchy and Crackers.

And yet… as wild as it was — as loud, messy, unfiltered and deeply unhinged as the whole day felt — I looked around at everyone and felt something warm (besides back pain and mild embarrassment):

Gratitude.

Because this is my chaos.
My loud family.
My unpredictable life filled with bruises, laughter, schedules we never meet, and children who treat holidays like endurance marathons.

I’m grateful for the noise, the memories, the laughter-that-hurts-your-ribs kind of moments.
I’m grateful for the people who love us even when we show up late, limping, with kids screaming like banshees.

And tomorrow — because we apparently crave more chaos — we’re adding a cat to the mix. A furry little gremlin to complete the scene. Why? Because our home runs on joy, noise, and just enough ridiculousness to keep things interesting.

Life isn’t perfect.
It’s not even close.
It’s chaotic, loud, messy, unpredictable — and deeply, beautifully mine.

And for that, I am thankful beyond words.

Confidently winging it—powered by chaos and caffeine.