Being Thankful for the Simple Things
Last night was our Preschool Thanksgiving Feast, the first after-hours event to which the entire family was invited. The meal was a potluck, with emphasis on the luck for me--those with last names beginning with 'S' were to bring a fruit dish. Ten minutes cutting up a cantelope and plucking a pound of grapes from the stems and I was done. I pitied the unfortunate Andersons, Bradys, and Christensens who had to bring casseroles.
Our full foursome arrived just before 6 PM, and we were surprised to find the YMCA gymnasium jam-packed with colorful tables and hundreds of people. I had been expecting only the families of our son's classmates; instead, I discovered that all three classes and their broods were in attendance, bringing the total number of preschoolers to around 70 and the tag-along family members to something like 200.
If you keep in mind the fact that 25% of the feasters were three, four, or five years old and that another 15-20% were younger than that, the scene should be easy--if rather jarring--to imagine. Exhausted parents who aren't used to being out of the house this late at night were, as much as possible, sitting in chairs having tiny snippets of conversation, and toddlers and preschoolers were running rampant along the perimeter of the gym. Toss in six harried preschool teachers trying to distribute pilgrim costumes for the "surprise" Thanksgiving pageant to the banshees galloping like wild horses around the large cluster of tables, and the picture is complete. A peaceful meal this was not to be.
The evening began with a three-song set, performed by the preschoolers, who had donned their paper pilgrim hats and painted-grocery-bag vests. They lined up like good little Rockettes and sang (or didn't sing, in a few cases) a couple of turkey songs, incorporating choreography as appropriate. The last number, the cleverly renamed "Turkey" Dance, was intended to draw audience participation, but the parents mostly just did the clapping part and avoided the tailfeather-shaking move. The whole thing was undeniably precious.
After the thunderous applause had died down and the video cameras had been turned off, it was time to eat. At least that's what we thought. Those fortunate enough to be seated at a table with a green tablecloth were invited to help themselves to the grub. This, however, was a time-consuming process given that each adult was, on average, trying to fill two plates as they filed past the food.
Next came the red tables. Sigh. While an orderly system was clearly required in this situation, the kids (not to mention the parents) who hadn't yet gotten a plate were getting a bit restless.
We of the yellow table looked up hopefully when the emcee took mike in hand to call the next set of feasters. "Blue!" she said festively. "#%&$!" said those of us who, at 7 PM, still hadn't had so much as a bite to eat.
At long last, our turn came. We lined up, the second-to-last family to the buffet table. At 7:20 PM when we sat down to eat, we would normally have been tucking our kids in. Guess that explains why, as we were leaving the Y shortly after 8 PM laden with pilgrim clothing, a hand-painted (and -glued and -stapled) turkey centerpiece, and an almost-empty bowl of fruit, our daugher threw herself to the tile just inside the main entryway in a fit of two-year-old fury. My beloved and I looked at each other helplessly until he shoved a fistful of gear at me and picked her up with the two fingers he had free. Suffice it to say that, despite all the effort the kids and their teachers had gone through to put on what was a very nice evening, thankful was not how we were feeling in that moment.
After the gala of the night before, I wasn't expecting anything special when I picked our little guy up from preschool this morning. We were the last in line to sign out, and as I reached for the pen, the teacher smiled at me and asked, "Do you read to your son a lot?"
"Yes, I do," I answered, thinking of the books that were eternally scattered all over the floor of his room. (My policy: as long as it's not food scraps, it can stay on the floor until I'm driven insane by it or we're having company.)
"I can tell," she responded. "Every day during free time, he spends a few minutes over in the reading nook looking at books. That love of books doesn't just happen."
"Thank you," I said. And this time, I meant--and really felt--it.
Our full foursome arrived just before 6 PM, and we were surprised to find the YMCA gymnasium jam-packed with colorful tables and hundreds of people. I had been expecting only the families of our son's classmates; instead, I discovered that all three classes and their broods were in attendance, bringing the total number of preschoolers to around 70 and the tag-along family members to something like 200.
If you keep in mind the fact that 25% of the feasters were three, four, or five years old and that another 15-20% were younger than that, the scene should be easy--if rather jarring--to imagine. Exhausted parents who aren't used to being out of the house this late at night were, as much as possible, sitting in chairs having tiny snippets of conversation, and toddlers and preschoolers were running rampant along the perimeter of the gym. Toss in six harried preschool teachers trying to distribute pilgrim costumes for the "surprise" Thanksgiving pageant to the banshees galloping like wild horses around the large cluster of tables, and the picture is complete. A peaceful meal this was not to be.
The evening began with a three-song set, performed by the preschoolers, who had donned their paper pilgrim hats and painted-grocery-bag vests. They lined up like good little Rockettes and sang (or didn't sing, in a few cases) a couple of turkey songs, incorporating choreography as appropriate. The last number, the cleverly renamed "Turkey" Dance, was intended to draw audience participation, but the parents mostly just did the clapping part and avoided the tailfeather-shaking move. The whole thing was undeniably precious.
After the thunderous applause had died down and the video cameras had been turned off, it was time to eat. At least that's what we thought. Those fortunate enough to be seated at a table with a green tablecloth were invited to help themselves to the grub. This, however, was a time-consuming process given that each adult was, on average, trying to fill two plates as they filed past the food.
Next came the red tables. Sigh. While an orderly system was clearly required in this situation, the kids (not to mention the parents) who hadn't yet gotten a plate were getting a bit restless.
We of the yellow table looked up hopefully when the emcee took mike in hand to call the next set of feasters. "Blue!" she said festively. "#%&$!" said those of us who, at 7 PM, still hadn't had so much as a bite to eat.
At long last, our turn came. We lined up, the second-to-last family to the buffet table. At 7:20 PM when we sat down to eat, we would normally have been tucking our kids in. Guess that explains why, as we were leaving the Y shortly after 8 PM laden with pilgrim clothing, a hand-painted (and -glued and -stapled) turkey centerpiece, and an almost-empty bowl of fruit, our daugher threw herself to the tile just inside the main entryway in a fit of two-year-old fury. My beloved and I looked at each other helplessly until he shoved a fistful of gear at me and picked her up with the two fingers he had free. Suffice it to say that, despite all the effort the kids and their teachers had gone through to put on what was a very nice evening, thankful was not how we were feeling in that moment.
After the gala of the night before, I wasn't expecting anything special when I picked our little guy up from preschool this morning. We were the last in line to sign out, and as I reached for the pen, the teacher smiled at me and asked, "Do you read to your son a lot?"
"Yes, I do," I answered, thinking of the books that were eternally scattered all over the floor of his room. (My policy: as long as it's not food scraps, it can stay on the floor until I'm driven insane by it or we're having company.)
"I can tell," she responded. "Every day during free time, he spends a few minutes over in the reading nook looking at books. That love of books doesn't just happen."
"Thank you," I said. And this time, I meant--and really felt--it.
posted by Lisa Strandberg at 9:31 PM
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