I was recently tagged in one of those Grateful meme thingies on Facebook by one of my favorite (and way-backiest) friends and, while I don’t generally participate in those for just anyone, I’m gonna make an exception for the gal who met me on the first day of sixth grade. While I was clad in a floral jumpsuit. And she still decided to sit with me. Because that’s a friend, people. (Hi, Lori!)
But because I’m just enough of a vanilla rule-breaker, I won’t do the whole five days part or whatever. And I’ll do it here. (Oh, the unfettered POWER!)
So.
I’m grateful for my friends. My friends everywhere in fact- new and super old alike. The ones who’ve loved me since I had puffy bangs and an unfortunate overbite, and the ones who pick up the phone even when they know I’m about to Ugly Cry at them for twenty minutes. The ones in town, across the country- across the world, even- the ones with whom I’ve mixed dubious cocktails and the ones I’ve yet to hug in person.
Lori and I are grateful. On a boat. Circa 1996.
This is beginning to read like a farewell note. SO. Moving right along.
I’m grateful for my children. There has never been a time when I didn’t want to be a mother. And even though there are many, many moments when I no longer want to be in my own sticky, exhausted, stressed-out skin, I never doubt the choice to mother the trio that got me that way. How cool is it to birth three of the most awesome people you’ll ever meet? (Cool. It’s very cool.)
I’m grateful that my predilection for crosswords has staved off dementia so far. Because if I didn’t have the ability to write every single day (blog posts and articles and grocery lists and free-associating rants which later turn out to not be for public consumption) and read (blog posts and articles and mystery novels and other people’s free-associating rants) every stolen chance I get, a part of my soul would be incredibly sad. I’m glad my soul is not incredibly sad. I’m also glad I can tell people that I sometimes freelance for the Chicago Tribune. No dementia = writing and reading every single day= sometimes writing for the Chicago Tribune. Grateful.
And that’s my three. I’m getting a little bored writing about how terrific P.J. is (and besides, he’s becoming a little impossible to live with). Besides, he snores. And jeepers creepers, if I write any more about my Dad, he’ll throw something at me. Samesies for my mother. (“Keely…” I didn’t say anything!) And my sisters are also great, blah blah blah, you don’t see THEM writing a blog post about ME, do you?
Being grateful is rather complicated.
But I am.
So there.
Speak Your Mind