A time to give thanks

A continuation of The Irish are coming for Thanksgiving, which, obviously, you should read first.

Thanksgiving eve

The first thing Lillianna said when she walked into my house was, “Man, your range hood really is squeaky clean.”

“Did you hear that?!” I said to Papa. 

“Lillianna, could you please repeat that?  I don’t think Papa heard you.”

“I read your blog while I was in the airport, dumbass,” Lillianna said with her usual candor.  “Who looks at a &@#! range hood?”

Papa actually chortled.  Papa had decided that the Irish-Florida invasion was a good reason to move cocktail hour up to 4 p.m.  (Papa can justify anything.)

Lillianna was in rare form.  She had a two-hour layover in Miami where she spent her time in the airport bar drinking cocktails. When no one came to the rescue of a very stout woman who slipped and busted her arse on the bar floor, Lillianna told the management they were a poor excuse for humanity and then commandeered an innocent drunk, whom she had shoved off a barstool, into helping her hoist the woman up. 

Feeling like she deserved a reward for being a good Samaritan (Lillianna can justify anything), she upgraded her ticket to first class for the second leg of her journey and had a few more cocktails.

“And while I’m at it, what’s this about me thinking motherhood is overrated?  Where did you get that shit?  I still want a baby.”

“Labor Day, 2007,” I said.  “Jax was 11 months old.  We came to visit.  By the end of the visit you were packing my car for me.”

“That’s bullshit.”

Lillianna’s memory is crap, and she was toasted.  I decided not to argue.

Papa sat in kilt and his sandals looking smug.  He’d added a jaunty little blue plaid beret with a pompom.  When I pointed out that his tartans didn’t match, he said he that it was a functional wardrobe.  He wanted to keep his head warm.  (It was 78 degrees out.)

Lillianna was unfazed by Papa’s attire.  At least one of the guys she had dated had a proclivity for wearing skirts.

Three hours later when Jolie called,  Papa and Lillianna were singing drinking songs.  “Where the hell are you?” I yelled.

“I’m at Walmart,” she said.  “I thought I’d pick up some wine.”

“Forget the wine,” I said. “We have six bottles.”

“Will that last us through Thanksgiving?”

“If it doesn’t, there’s Papa’s stash of booze under the kitchen sink.  Forget Walmart.”

Irish people are enamored of Walmart.  I don’t think they have any on the Emerald Isle.

Half an hour later they finally arrived, and Lillianna, Jolie and I had a teary group hug.  We’d finally met.  And while we bonded and drank wine, Miles, the curly Irish cherub and the little Beans laughed and played and hopped on furniture and chased one another around the house.  Candles gave the room a golden ambience and Nora Jones’s sultry lyrics played in the background.

Maison Bean was happy.

 “I want a baby,” Lillianna wailed.

“Have another glass of wine,” I said.

Thanksgiving day

The little Beans were up excruciatingly early.  We were soon joined by Miles whose mommy was sleeping off her jetlag.  While they used my bed for a trampoline, I covered my head with a pillow.  Undaunted, Hyacinth, who was also on the bed, contributed to the noise level with her snores.

Finally, I shooed them all out telling them their mission was to wake Papa so that he could cook the turkey.  I locked the door and crawled under the covers.

Instead they went to Jax’s room where Lillianna was sleeping off the previous day’s indulgences.  Unbeknown to Lillianna, she was sleeping above a little Bean treasure trove.  Under the bed were baskets of match box cars and trains courtesy of an overly indulgent Mimi.  In no time, the baskets were dumped without regard for Lillianna whose slumbering form became a mountain upon which the little miscreants raced cars and trains and produced hair-splitting sound effects.

Lillianna’s screams woke Papa who is quite grumpy in the morning, and, who turned the offenders loose in the backyard and then bellowed on the other side of my door so that I had no choice but to see to Lillianna.

When I reached her, she was blathering on about cramps and toys that talked in the dark and clattering baskets of trains and cars and little monsters that attacked whilst she slept.  I took her a black coffee and a bloody Mary.  She inhaled both and asked for refills.

While we sipped bloody Marys in the kitchen, the little monsters invaded Lillianna’s room again.  By the time we found them, they had launched an entire box of rockets [read: feminine hygiene products] that they’d discovered in her suitcase.

I got Lillianna another bloody Mary and a box of rockets, and I roused Jolie for moral support.

As the day wore on and the smells of a cooking turkey wafted through the air, the little monsters started bickering over cars and trains. 

“That’s mine!” Jax screamed as Moose hurled his little body upon Lillianna.  He crawled into her lap and held on tight to his brother’s train. 

Lillianna screamed. There was a foul substance leaking from Moose’s hindquarters.

Papa poured Lillianna a vodka straight up.

By the time the turkey was done, Lillianna and Papa were singing drinking songs again.  Jolie and I served the dinner and the little monsters calmed down to eat. 

After Jax sang “God, our Father,” Lillianna was moved to begin a rather lengthy soliloquy about what she was thankful for.

“And I’m thankful,” she said, addressing her concluding remarks to Jolie and me, “that you two bore the monsters.  Motherhood is clearly overrated.”