So I told myself I would not stress out about the food, my house, or the boys running around like wild Indians this year. I would love my family and just enjoy our Thanksgiving together…

Then I overslept and had a dream I forgot to cook the turkey. Stumbled out of bed, freaking out, fumbled to the kitchen, and attacked the turkey.

My first turkey ever because my mom or Aunt Marolyn always cook a turkey, but this year it’s on me. I couldn’t see the instructions on the turkey wrapping, even with my reading glasses on. Could the instructions be printed any smaller? Do ants cook turkeys? Somebody get me a magnifying glass!

I wrestled the raw turkey around the kitchen, imaging I was contaminating the whole place with toxic turkey juice. Yelled at four-year-old Cruz to get some shoes on or get out of the dang kitchen because he’s walking around in raw turkey juice. Cruz could die of E Coli or something.

Do I cook the turkey in a bag or not in an oven bag? I want to call my mom.

I will not call my mom! I’m a big girl now. I’ll go with the dang bag. Forget to flour the bag. Wrestle the big raw bird back out of the bag after reading the directions on the oven bag box. Flour the bag, put the bird back into the bag, back into the oven. Forgot to rub butter on the big raw bird. Out of the oven, butter the dang bird, yell at Cruz to get out of the kitchen because it’s covered in toxic turkey juice now. Put the buttered, floured, big raw bird back into the oven.

Nearly in tears, I finally call my mom. “If you’re starting the turkey now, you cannot use the bag. It will cook too fast,” she tells me. I hang up the phone. Do I go with the bag or not go with the bag to cook this big raw bird? I hate this big raw bird! I’ve never roasted a turkey in my life. I’m agonizing now over a stupid turkey!

Call my mom again. “Without the bag you will have to baste it every 45 minutes for hours. Hours and hours of basting as you cook it. You don’t own a baster,” Mom informs me. What the heck’s a baster? I hang up the phone feeling like a failure.

Oh my gosh!

What just happened to not stressing out and just enjoying the holidays? The turkey might taste like the Sahara Desert now. We might not be able to even eat it. I’ve sprayed Clorox bleach all over my kitchen. All over the sink and counters and floor because E-Coli could be lurking there. I’d like to Clorox Cruz too, but he’s hiding from his crazy mommy.

It’s 8 a.m. and I’m already a mess. How did this happen? For any of you stressing over today, here’s a prayer for all of us… Jesus, please help us. It’s just a day. It’s not about the turkey, it’s about living thankful. If the turkey turns to crap, we can still live thankful.

If Thanksgiving Day isn’t what we imagined, we can still be grateful for all we have. Please God, grant us all grateful hearts today.

Scott read this and reminded me that I forgot to add how the oven door fell open in the middle of this madness and I banged my thigh really hard. I am grateful for this big fat bruise on my leg reminding me not to freak out again today.

This happened with last year’s turkey, but Scott thinks it’s funny enough to post again. And since I didn’t have time to write a blog this week, here it is. I’m happy to say this year’s turkey went much more smoothly. Hopefully it will taste good too.

Happy Thanksgiving friends!