The question that comes to my mind as I sit here on the cusp of yet another 4-day weekend, with bonus holiday and birthday fun, is if I can make it to the far side of Sunday without having to resort to raiding the stash of Christmas presents in a desperate attempt to entertain the children.

Today I’ll be making gluten-free cornbread (recipe from Joy of Cooking, no flour required) in preparation for making cornbread stuffing tomorrow. I also spared Dex the laborious task of making gluten-free pie crust from scratch (which he does very well, but it is a pain, as all pie crust is) by my discovery of ready made gf pie crusts. Two crusts for $4.99 - can’t beat it. Even if they are merely decent, they will be worth the savings in hassle.

I am just very thankful that we will be having a normal, quiet Thanksgiving this year. No trip to the hospital to sit by Davey’s side in the PICU, watching a machine breath for him. That’s how I spent the day last year. For lunch, I bought turkey, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce, and a hot, hot coffee from the hospital cafeteria. When I got home early that evening, I found that - to our great shock and delight - our neighbors had brought over a complete Thanksgiving dinner for us. A whole cooked turkey, all the side dishes. It was beyond amazing. It was a bright moment in an otherwise scary and somber time.

I know of a couple families with kids in the hospital right now. If they didn’t live thousands of miles away, I would gladly do the same for them tomorrow. I know… when your child is ill, in some ways Thanksgiving is just a day like any other. Maybe a little quieter on the long drive to the hospital, maybe shorter lines at the coffee stand, but still there is the routine of driving, parking, approaching the PICU door, washing hands, going to the bedside, getting the updates from the nurse, leaning over and kissing your unconscious child on his smooth forehead, settling into the chair pulled up to the bedside, sitting, sitting for hours and just watching him, watching the monitors, chatting with the doctors and nurses, waiting, letting the world drift by outside without you and your sick son, not thinking about anything else but this room, this moment, the tiny steps forward or back that translate into another day or less in this place and away from the flow of normal life. In this way, the day is like the dozen before it and more to come.

Still. It is disheartening when you leave in the chilly grey November evening, climb into your cold car, start the long drive home, your hands guiding the wheel and your heart back there, in that room, at that bedside.