Ten minutes after my sister and her family arrived from Oklahoma, her youngest son, Charlie, puked on my stairs. It was a sign of puke to come: between Charlie, my mom, my niece, and my son we saw no fewer than 40 more episodes of puke during the week, at least 6 of which landed on the floor. (Several varieties of cleaning solution later, our house smells like a nursing home.) We also had one massive puddle of blood, several sleepless nights, and a dog that required constant chasing as he slipped through our backyard fence again and again and again. (Someday I’ll write a short story about the time my sister, her husband, and I took all the kids to see “Madagascar 2,” and soon got a text message from my mom reading “help!”, and learned she was lost in my neighborhood at night trying to find a little black, slippery puppy, and my sis and I left the theater to go chase down the dog and rescue my mom, and got back just in time for the credits to roll.)

Sigh. 

But. 

Yesterday as my wife and I were lamenting the week, we realized that not one voice was raised (except toward the dog), not one temper lost. Everyone exercised pretty good gallows humor all week long. Because appetites were small, we scaled back Thanksgiving dinner big-time (thank you, Tyler Florence) and discovered that you can have a perfectly yummy holiday meal without slaving in the kitchen all day long. 

I love my family and I’ll take their company however I can get it. Given our family history–a story for another day–that’s a miracle, and one that keeps me in continual wonder. So I’m grateful for our Thanksgiving, vomit and all.