Holidays are tricky to navigate. It is almost as hard as finding your way when the grocery store rearranges its aisles. And while the latter inspired a helpful neighbor to draw a map for distressed community members, navigating family relationships isn’t always so easy.

Open any social media feed and you’ll find advice about how to avoid conflict at seasonal gatherings. Strategies range from somewhat snarky (keep a secret bingo board filled with predicted comments) to delicate confrontation (“I wish you wouldn’t say that”). The prevalence of these articles has made me quite paranoid — what space would I occupy on the annoying relative bingo board?

In any case, Thanksgiving will be a bit different for us this year. While the location (my mother’s house) and the traditions remain the same, this year, the inevitable has happened. Two out of three of our kids won’t be there. One will be visiting with his fiancee’s family; the other is a clown in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. Both are worthy excuses, and I hold no malice, but I’ll miss them.

My mom turns 90 at the end of this year, but she still prepares the entire Thanksgiving meal. Despite repeated offers, at most, she will allow you to peel potatoes. Bring a dish not on the traditional menu, and it will be eschewed. The offerings are the same as those of my childhood: turkey, stuffing, squash, mashed potatoes, rolls and a few random veggies. Fortunately, the turnips have gone by the wayside. What has changed is the number of people. This year, 11 will attend, while the feasts of my childhood served closer to 30. Over the years, the gathering dwindled as aunts and uncles became grandparents and splintered off into their own celebrations.

The last dinner with extended family was the most memorable, as it taught me the importance of maneuvering through conversational obstacles. I was around 24 and had been teaching for a year or two. When school break came, I headed immediately to my parents’ home, just as I had throughout college. Upon arrival, I was informed that this would be the first year I was officially released from the children’s table. This transfer happened due to an influx of young ones, not because anyone recognized my maturity.

To be seated at the adult table meant that I’d be accepted as an adult, and therefore, be privy to all the gossip. Most of it was about people I didn’t even know, but still, it was entertaining.

“Stephanie has a new English teacher,” Aunt Dotty began. Her daughter Stephanie was in eighth grade, the same grade I taught.

“New teachers are always disasters,” Aunt Nora chimed in.

I looked at my plate and wondered if I was a disaster, followed by a glance over my shoulder at the children’s table. Maybe there was still room over there.

“And do you know what that teacher did?” Dotty continued self-righteously. Without pausing, she continued, “He told them that they could use one swear word in their assignment. Just this assignment, but still, he is letting them SWEAR! And he told them they could use any word they wanted to!”

The brilliance of this idea stunned me. Take the mystique of foul language away, thwart a middle school obsession and be able to move forward for the rest of the year scot-free. Impressed, I returned my attention to the table where Dotty was still holding forth.

“And Stephanie wrote damn. She said damn in her paper!”

Oblivious to the murmuring and tutting that emanated from around the table, I finally spoke. “Damn. Really? Any swear words at all, and that was the best she could come up with?”

A dismayed gasp was the only answer. I’m not sure if anyone spoke to me after that conversational debacle. My plan to be accepted as a responsible adult immediately veered off course.

But it was at that meal I formulated my advice on handling family during holiday celebrations … just keep eating. It’s harder to put your foot in your mouth when it’s full of food.