Ah, Thanksgiving. You’ve been looking forward to it for weeks, I know. The way your eyes light up when you talk about your mother’s pumpkin pie, my fluffy mashed potatoes, the smoked turkey your brother does so well each year. The way you absently rub your stomach as you list out the other side dishes and desserts you’re looking forward to. I know you will be disappointed if a single one fails to make an appearance on the table this year–like the way your Aunt Debbie went on a health kick and brought a vegetable platter instead of her green bean casserole five years ago and you still complain about it.

I don’t know what you are going to wear tomorrow. Even your sweat pants seem to be pinching you lately, the way you shift the waistband around. You’ve put on a lot of weight this past year. I’m not sure what the number on the scale is–you never share that with me–but there’s no denying you’ve crossed the line from chubby to fat. Your relatives no longer remark how you must be enjoying home cooking or that you should take it easy and hit the gym. The fat you is the new normal.

I know that tomorrow you are going to do fat boys everywhere proud. You’ll sample everything, more than once, and then get a second wind for dessert. On a day when everyone will be pigging out, you’ll be the biggest pig of all, eating until your belly feels like a lead balloon. You’ll beach yourself on the couch, giving me a glance and asking me to bring you another slice of pie, knowing I’ll bring you two. Every bite will disappear into your fat, overfilled stomach.

What no one but us will know is what happens with all the leftovers after we get home…

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