Today, I was going to write about how I'm thankful for the slow-paced relatively-easy day -- if you don't count meltdowns at therapy -- I'm having with the kids. And paper goods. Because if I had to wash everything we have without my beloved dishwasher in my sad little kitchen, I wouldn't have had time to hang out with them.
But upon further reflection, I think I'm a tad bit more thankful that two months after we first discovered our kitchen issue, I didn't have a complete breakdown when our contractor came in TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS over budget yesterday. Because of my calm, sane response to the scenario, I get to spend the weekend with my family and not in an asylum rocking back and forth. (Or the tiny cell they'd toss me in after committing assault with the sink sitting in my living room.) I could totally pick that as the subject of this week's thanks.
But oh no, I'm not going to.
Because as I sit writing this, I heard a blood-curdling scream. A scream that made my toes curl and the mom-hairs on my arm stand on end. A scream like the one I heard, you just know with every ounce of your being something is terribly, terribly wrong. As I threw down the two cups of water I was serving the other two, I ran as fast as my I-just-worked-out-for-the-first-time-in-months legs would take me up the flight of stairs and down the hall. Suddenly, the scream turned to tears -- such devastated tears. As the first bead of sweat dripped from my forehead and I asked 500 times in a row "what's wrong, what's wrong, what's wrong?," the words finally made their way out of his sad little mouth.
"I...I...I...dropped my Legoooooooos behind the shelfffffff!!!"
I'm sure you can understand that my thanks over this situation flip-flopped between grateful he was OK and even more thankful that I didn't throw his Legos out the window, sending him to years of therapy.
What are you thankful for?
