"That is certainly a gift," I said reverently when we passed this proud piece of taxidermy this evening. Being human, I have always envied those who have apartments in the beautiful buildings that line Central Park West, but now that I know they have stuffed turkeys waiting to be brought out and displayed for Thanksgiving I'll be more serious when I pick my lottery numbers.
Gifts.
We were gifted a beautiful day, and the time to play in the park.
We were gifted the golden ticket of balloon inflation. We have friends who live on 81st street between Columbus and Central Park West. What this means is that if they send you an invitation to a party at their place on Thanksgiving Eve you get to feel like a VIP by showing it to the police at the barricades who will then bestow admittance upon you to the apartment side (as opposed to the bone-crushing museum side) of the balloons. Of course I didn't strategize well and we ended up with our faces and bums simultaneously gridlocked with humanity -- while I pushed away an anxiety attack and about crushed the kids' hands -- but eventually we separated ourselves from the masses and proceeded with that VIP-thing I just mentioned.
We were gifted hospitality and cheer. Whether alcohol, Rice Krispy treat, or kindness-induced, cheerful interactions are always appreciated. A gathering of happy people is a gift. This is the second year we have been invited to the balloon inflation soiree, and the second time I thought about the gift that the hosts are giving. The night before Thanksgiving cannot be a good time to prepare food and open up your home to a million hyper kids who, like Hansel and Gretel, scatter crumbs like their lives depend on it. But this family knows that their location is a gift -- and so year after year they share it. And as I type this they are surely schlepping bags of garbage to the chute, trying not to think of their grocery receipts as they scrape away left-overs, and wondering where to store the random dishes that got left behind. Hosting is a gift always, but it might be a slightly larger gift in a town where you develop a hump carrying your over-priced groceries, pay for your laundry, and don't have an already-trashed basement to dump extra kids.
We have been gifted a cute sister/aunt. She was gifted a job to help wrangle the kids at the party... After seeing all the warts of human beings tonight (during that part when the masses didn't realize I was a VIP) -- feeling the pushes, hearing the rawther rude things, and watching various acts of crankinesses (and all that was just the kids and me), I can say that consistent sweetness is appreciated. As a witness to what she was up against, I was touched when she came home and didn't say anything snarky about the quantity or quality of the kids, but simply said, "I hope that they thought I did a good job. I tried." Apparently different adults had different opinions of how their offspring should be managed. And apparently some kids think it's okay to throw their no longer wanted cupcakes on the floor. Ah well... she was gifted a Thanksgiving Day Parade memory that she will surely remember.
We have been gifted memories. When we moved to the city it was November and my mother and father-in-law flew across the country to visit us in our still-boxed apartment to share our first Thanksgiving away from "home." I well-remember pushing the stroller in the crowds as we walked the twenty or so blocks (which feels like A LOT when you are used to planting it in a car) to the balloon inflation. I was freezing in some spots and sweltering in others, worried for the welfare of my babies, and I had sore feet from my new boots. I swore that we would never do it again. And yet we have... again and again... each time yielding a different type of irritating (and often cool) experience. Thus, the balloon inflation symbolizes our transition from overwhelmed visitor, to grumpy, persistent New Yorker. More importantly, it reminds us of long-suffering (grand)parents who supported our crazy move -- always remaining upbeat and optimistic as they limped against the crowd-surges, slept in the bathtub (not really, but close), and ate a purchased, reheated Thanksgiving dinner.
We are gifted the night... and lights to shimmer in the night. Last year after leaving the party we decided to cut home through the park. Usually we don't do a lot in the park after dark -- especially without a biggish group, or a dad -- but last year because there seemed to be more friendly-looking folks (i.e. tourists) wandering about the park, and because we couldn't face the crowds in the opposite direction, we dared. This year the kids insisted that we do it again. It is empowering to walk in the night. Like last year we saw the pretty lights from the New York Historical Society through the trees.
Like last year, once we exited the park we walked along the bleachers that are set up for the parade. On TV tomorrow the camera might pan on those sitting in the bleachers... Tonight, under the street lights, they belonged to us... We climbed and balanced on them and enthusiastically waved back to some kids passing by in a pedicab that was decorated with blue and red Christmas lights.
Then we were gifted that turkey in the window. Then we were gifted the clip of Obama pardoning, not one but TWO turkeys (Cobble and Gobble).
Christmas does not have the monopoly on gifts.
We were gifted a beautiful day. And we are thankful.
