I miss sitting at the kids' table

I have a 20-lb turkey thawing, prep for the stuffing, 5 pounds of potatoes to boil and mash, pies to bake, rolls to make, looking at a 4 am start to be ready for the folks to come over for lunch. I hate being an adult at Thanksgiving.

I was the last grandchild to marry and have kids, so up until 26 or so I got to sit at the kids' table. Being a college educated unmarried woman in a highly traditional family, they all assumed I couldn't cook, or set a table, or serve, but I was hella good at entertaining the "other kids" and keeping them out from under foot. We'd be outside if it was nice or in the back room playing games if it was too cold. I'd sneak through the kitchen and nab snacks and sodas for the tiny troops; we'd all puppy pile on the floor and watch Cartoon Network until it was time to eat. The kids' table wasn't a squatty little wanna be, it was a full size long folding table with folding chairs, and towards the end of my reign, there were 8 of us, ranging from 3 to 26. I would help them get their plates filled, cut turkey and ham into manageable pieces, and have "See Food" battles with the boys. I always won those because I had a bigger mouth and could stuff more food in there. Annie was the baby, just barely 3 that last Thanksgiving born two days after my birthday. She was my favorite cousin's only girl, bless her, she had 3 big brothers (see See Food battles). Annie would climb into my lap and eat off my plate, happily humming and giggling. She's the reason I changed from, "Kids? No fucking way." to "OMG! I have GOT to get me a couple of these critters!"

While the adults were busy discussing politics, bills, crops, jobs, etc, we were discussing weighty issues like who was the best Ninja Turtle, frog gigging, fishing, Santa Claus and what we wanted for Christmas. We'd wear our very un-PC Indian headbands that we made while waiting for dinner, and talk in very un-PC Indian "ug" talk. And then, when the turkey and ham and at least two green beans were consumed, we whined and pestered Grandma Doris to let us cut the pies. Being the oldest, I was in charge of the Redi-Whip can. Bad judgment on their part. Not one child got away without a mouthful of whipped cream, or two.

Dinner consumed, eyelids heavy, I rallied my little troops to clear their plates to the kitchen, carefully scraping the scraps into the pig slop bucket, and headed them back to the playroom for naps. Me in the middle of the puppy pile, blissfully happy in my lack of adult responsibilities.

Damn, I miss sitting at the kids' table.