Okay, fine, I’ll get behind this thankfulness thing. I’m thankful for all kinds of things.
I do a lot of complaining.
But this is my blog. I can cry if I want to.
The truth is, though, I know I’m pretty much livin’ the dream and my whining is just that. Whining.
And I do it with full knowledge that I’m whining. Somehow, in my head, that makes it better.
Plus, I believe the truth of the moment has a right to be heard, and sometimes I get sick of being a parent and sick of living from one paycheck to the next and sick of the work and sleepless nights and the struggling and blah, blah, blah.
But I always know, somewhere, that what I have in this life is one giant, steaming pile of goodness.
And I don’t mean that sarcastically.
There is nothing worse than the friend who stands in her 3,000 square foot house complaining about the neighbors and how her kids’ private school just won’t do what she wants and her husband is just so busy and her kids are getting D’s and my god. You know the story.
And she really believes she’s got a tough gig. You just want to grab her and shake her – “DUDE. I know fifty people who would switch places with you RIGHT NOW if given the opportunity.”
And when I’m complaining, bitching about my mariachi-addicted neighbors and ironworker husband working out of town and the noise in my house and the stress of school and the seemingly unending chain of shit that needs to be done…
I know there are hundreds of women who would give anything for a husband who did something other than sit on his ass and play video games…
Or own a house in any neighborhood at all, anywhere…
Or have the opportunity to pursue their dream of grad school…
And there’s the woman
Her baby and
would lay down every moment of the rest of her life
For just one hour of the chaos
And the pressure
And the expectations
I face and struggle with and
Happy Thanksgiving, people.