We barely get our coats off before Papa declares Thanksgiving officially open—not with a prayer, but with a fart joke so loud it rattles the cranberry sauce. The boys collapse in laughter, Mimi mutters something about “raising animals,” and I’m just grateful someone else is keeping them entertained while I scope out the pie situation.

Papa doesn’t just host Thanksgiving—he weaponizes it. The living room becomes a wrestling ring, couch cushions flying like turkey feathers. The boys pile on him, shrieking, while he groans dramatically, pretending to be defeated by their “superhuman strength.” Spoiler: he’s secretly winning every round.

Dinner prep? Forget it. Papa has already staged a Nerf war in the hallway, encouraged a “snack raid” on Mimi’s carefully guarded fridge, and convinced the boys that mashed potatoes make excellent ammo. Mimi’s table setting is under siege, and Papa is grinning like the general of chaos he was born to be.

By the time the turkey hits the table, Papa has led three missions, two wrestling matches, and at least six fart jokes. The boys are red-faced from laughing, Mimi is sighing into her sweet tea, and I’m sitting back thinking: This is Thanksgiving. This is tradition. This is Papa.

Because in our family, Thanksgiving isn’t just about gratitude—it’s about Papa leading the charge into absolute, glorious shenanigans. And honestly? That’s the kind of chaos worth celebrating every year.