It’s time we had a serious chat, one that, quite honestly, will be a little uncomfortable for some of you. 

But hear me out, because it’s really important. 

I know a whole lot of you out there love Christmas, like really, really love Christmas. 

And I get it! It’s fun and beautiful and sparkly and exciting. 

But as a card-carrying middle child, I feel duty-bound to tell you, with as much love and kindness as I possess in my non-confrontational heart: IT’S NOT YOUR TURN YET, CHRISTMAS.

There’s this little thing called Thanksgiving sandwiched between the fuss of Halloween and the fanfare of Christmas, and it’s basically the middle child of the holiday season. 

I know Christmas is flashier, what with all those blinking lights, the glittering blankets of freshly-fallen snow, the stacks of presents under the perfectly-trimmed tree, the jingle bells and ugly sweaters and caroling children and Santa Claus. 

I know we’ve just come down from the Halloween high that was filled with clever costumes and pumpkin patches and fall foliage and Reese’s peanut butter pumpkins. 

I know. 

But. 

Maybe it’s my inner Jan Brady talking, but Thanksgiving gets the short end of the stick every single year.

November’s here? “Eeeeeek! It’s only eight weeks till Christmas!!!” 

Well guess what? It’s only three weeks til Turkey Day.

Marsha, Marsha, Marsha! 

And dependable ol’ Thanksgiving deserves a hot minute in the spotlight, too. 

When else can you gather with family and friends with no expectations other than to simply eat delicious food, enjoy one another’s company, and fall asleep on Grandma’s couch in a tryptophan- and homemade rolls-induced haze? There are no presents to buy. There’s no tree to trim. There’s no freaking elf to move. It’s low maintenance and marvelous and cozy and warm, and we’re trying to usher it out stage right. 

Nope. 

Let me enjoy my stuffing and mashed potatoes and pie, dang it. Let me set my table with cute little place cards and miniature turkey salt and pepper shakers.

Let me cook for my in-laws and question my ability to make gravy the way mom always did, and wonder how on earth I’m going to get everything on the table at roughly the same time before the sweet potatoes get cold and the cousins mortally wound one another with butter knives. 

Let me go shopping without having to hear those infernal renditions of Feliz Navidad and Wonderful Christmas Time 14-thousand times.  

Give Jan a chance, Marsha. 

I promise, she’s actually pretty great, too.