Thanksgiving Goals: Achieved

So apparently when you’re eight months pregnant, Thanksgiving becomes a competitive sport and I am WINNING.

Thanksgiving Goals: Achieved

Abuela Rosa took one look at my plate (plates, plural, let’s be honest) and nodded approvingly. “You’re feeding the soul of the baby,” she said, which is basically a medical prescription to eat everything in sight.

Marcus keeps asking if I want to “pace myself” for dinner and I’m like, honey, this IS dinner. And second dinner. And probably third dinner. The baby wants mashed potatoes AND tamales AND that green bean casserole that only appears once a year.

Sophie is fascinated by my eating abilities. She’s been following me around asking “Mama, where does all the food go?” Kid, your little sibling is apparently training to be a linebacker. We’re just supporting their athletic ambitions.

Best Thanksgiving ever. No regrets. Well, maybe I’ll regret it when I can’t move later, but that’s Future Elena’s problem.