Giving Thanks.

I have a love-hate relationship with Thanksgiving. 

Case in point: I love turkey. I do not love what it takes to get the pimply carcass basted and roasted to perfection.

For the past decade, Thanksgiving has been one of the busiest weekends of the year for me. In our family, it was accepted that Mommy would be holding a blackberry in one hand, typing with the other, and supervising the decking of the halls. I did not have time to channel my inner Martha Stewart. (There was also that unfortunate episode that suggests, unless I want to entertain a full engine of firemen for Thanksgiving dinner, I should avoid the kitchen.)

So when my not-quite-obsessed-with-fitness husband proclaimed his frustration that family gatherings are driven and shaped by various levels of engorgement and that he would rather pedal his way through the morning, I had what every woman between a rock and her mother-in-law needs.

Back up.

Like everything else, I was compelled by loyalty and grief to fill everyone’s void but my own. I sat through morose Thanksgiving dinners where no one uttered his name while we ate at a table where his eyes followed no matter where you sat. My kids misbehaved. Cutlery chinked.

I tried. But no amount of tryptophane could make me thankful. So I restarted, reshaped and reconfigured. I cancelled our annual Christmas Eve festivities. I stopped making calls on Mother’s Day, simply to see if anyone would remember that it was my day, too. I stopped working on Thanksgiving and, to my children’s delight, I cooked a feast worthy of the pilgrims and we stayed in our pajamas decking the halls and watching the cast of Christmas parade across our TV screen.  

For the past 19 days I have watched the daily acknowledgements of what various friends and acquaintances are most thankful for this year. For new life. Old friends. Employment. Traditions. For adversity overcome. 

And it gave me pause.

I am thankful in so many ways.

For peppermint ice cream. Stila eyeliner. Spanx. Spiced eggnog. Maroon 5. Self-adhesive envelopes. Steve Jobs. Nike. Text messaging. Riesling. Magicians that moonlight as photographers. Merlot. My housekeeper. New lounge chairs. Wireless bras. My daughter’s giggle. Ginger molasses cookies. Jason Bourne. Unfinished stories. Flip flops. Channing Tatum. The delete button. Homemade oatmeal. Jennifer Weiner. Tide laundry detergent pods. Memories. Pinot Noir. Glass art. Scented candles. Friends that don’t judge me, even when I am unfriendly. My chiropractor. Philosophy Eternal Grace bubble bath. Music with meaning. My feather pillows. My frayed 10-year-old Coach tote. The Spice Girls disbanding. My financial advisor. Hockey. Dreams. Pretty toes. Lavender. Family that understands that who I am today is not who I was yesterday. Ballet flats. My son’s dimples. Sequins. Hot tea. Perfect jeans. TMZ. Black T’s. Tulips. Lace panties. Shiraz. White T’s. Running lycra. My ObGyn. My aesthetician. Smoothies. Cabernet. Peep toes. Rainy days. The lady who does payroll. Online shopping. Raspberries. Whichever neighbor it is that pulls my trash can in so that the HOA won’t fine me. Fire extinguishers. Comfy chairs. Fine point black felt pens. Gerard Butler. Pomegranates. Sleeping in. For the me I choose to be.

And definitely for Gerard Butler.