A Thanksgiving Confession: I’m Glad My Kids Are Older Now
By Zibby Owens
I’m thankful I don’t have small children anymore. Is that okay to say?
I love kids, particularly mine. Growing up, I was a camp counselor, a babysitter, a mother’s helper. I even worked afternoons in high school on the new baby unit of a hospital, rolling up little towels to stock the cribs and sitting in the rocking chair by the window overlooking Central Park, holding a Down Syndrome baby, looking into his eyes as I smiled and rocked back and forth.
I always grin goofily at little ones on their parents’ shoulders in line at the airport and play hide ‘n seek just to hear that delicious gurgle. I offer to hold anyone’s child and usually find a way to make them laugh, even if they’re crying. I automatically bounce at the knees to soothe a newborn and can burp even the most stubborn. I simply love babies and kids. That’s why I had four of them.
But when I think about all the Thanksgivings when the kids, now ages almost eight to fifteen, were tiny, I can feel my shoulders tense up. First it was the stress of packing up the diaper bags. I started motherhood with twins, so there were always two bags—and one twin had a milk allergy so there were different bottles to contend with. Then came packing up totes of toys and other distractions to make sure they could sit at the table throughout the long meal. After that, the drama of getting dressed.
We’ve always dressed up for Thanksgiving in my family. The men wear blazers, khakis or wool pants, and nice shoes. The women wear dresses, tights, boots, makeup. So whether we go to Thanksgiving at my mom’s or my dad’s (and yes, I am still alternating between them according to their divorce agreement circa 1990), the kids have to be clad in their finest attire which, of course, they never want to be. No. The kids want to stay in their jammies and watch the parade on TV. Frankly, so do I. But dress up we must. And we have to be on time. And then, go with the flow, whatever that ends up being—from hayrides to board games to who knows what?!
One Thanksgiving, I had the misguided idea to bring the bath “stuff” for the twins and get them ready for bed at my dad’s house as the giant holiday meal wound down. That way, I figured, I wouldn’t have to rush home, and the twins could still stay on their “schedule” which, as a young mom, I crafted and adhered to as if it were coming from a Marine Corps drill sergeant.
Without a super strict timeline, I was emotionally adrift; nap times and bedtimes were non-negotiable. (By the time I got to my third and fourth kids, schedules were tossed out the window.) All I remember from that failed bath-time experiment was having two naked children racing around the house, gleefully laughing as I chased them through hallways and among extended family and other guests, losing them until they turned up, hiding under a formal console table.
And me? I was stressed. Seriously, seriously stressed. I was always watching the kids out of the corner of my eye, not paying attention to whatever conversation I was having with a grown-up. Some years, I decided to drink a bit too much wine to take the edge off. Other years I abstained but overloaded my dessert plate, inhaling cake by the plateful to fortify me.
When I look back at my younger self on past Thanksgivings, the new mom trying so hard to make everything perfect from her kids’ outfits to their behavior, I just want to give her a huge, tight hug and whisper, “It gets easier. It won’t always feel like this. Just get through the next few years—and know it doesn’t have to be perfect. No one cares!”
Concerned, my brother would often look at me and say, “Zib? You good?” I’d nod enthusiastically, but I was clearly not. I wasn’t fooling anyone. And the kids, of course, could feel my stress, my body practically vibrating with it, making everything worse.
Now, that’s all done. I show up to Thanksgiving smiling and relaxed. The kids dress themselves. They take pride in their own appearance. They have their own styles. They don’t need distraction devices; they sit at the table with the grown-ups (or next to it with their cousins at the kids’ table) and have their own, pleasant conversations. Yes, they’ll check in with me, hopping up at times to give me a kiss on the cheek or a hand on the shoulder, perhaps asking for the iPad (which I decline). But now the kids are fun. I don’t have to worry. I can relax. My shoulders drop. I can pay attention to my parents, my relatives, and the kids.
Every other year, my ex has the kids for Thanksgiving, something I couldn’t have imagined during those very early parenting years. This year is one of those, but I’m okay with it. The first time I didn’t have the kids on Thanksgiving, I sat between my niece and nephew and excused myself to bawl in the kitchen over sweet potatoes and stuffing.
Yes, I miss the kids on holidays, but I know they’re okay. I know they’re having a great time with their other grandparents, their dad, his fiancée, and their cousins. And I’m having a nice time, too, with my extended family and my husband, Kyle, and his family. I don’t have to worry. I’m okay with it.
We are all happy. We are all growing up. Even me.
When I look back at my younger self on past Thanksgivings, the new mom trying so hard to make everything perfect from her kids’ outfits to their behavior, I just want to give her a huge, tight hug and whisper, “It gets easier. It won’t always feel like this. Just get through the next few years—and know it doesn’t have to be perfect. No one cares!”
It wasn’t always easy managing four little ones. (I mean, it still isn’t always easy.) But this year, I’m thankful that they’re older. That they make me laugh, that they surprise and delight me, and that they reveal more of who they are every year. I’m thankful that all four of them are so unique and amazing. Independent. Funny. Wonderful. I get to sit back and watch their superpowers unfold and get to know who they’re becoming. It is a true joy for which I am deeply, deeply thankful.
So please pass the wine and chocolate cake—not to blot out my feelings, but to partake in the communal celebration of gratitude.
We’ve all made it here.
In one piece. Stronger. Better.
And not naked.
Sometimes, that’s enough.