Grateful for children

I recently visited a blog in which the author was relating a few of the reasons she was grateful for her kids. Her children are small — that lovely phase of eyelash kisses and squeezing the stuffing out of mommy. Her stories brought back some wonderful memories.

And since it is almost Thanksgiving, I thought I’d wax poetic for a minute about the three in my brood. (Um, brood is the right word, as mine occasionally run around like chickens with their heads cut off.)

All three of mine are still technically teenagers (the oldest is almost twenty and informs me she’ll be an adult at that age). Many folks aren’t grateful for their teens because they can be lippy, know-it-alls, pushing the envelope, pushing their parents’ buttons, and quite frankly, a danger to themselves.


My son at 6’4″ is tall enough to reach anything I can’t. I do occasionally put things on top shelves (using my step stool of course) just so I can call him into the kitchen to fetch whatever I need. Could I be manipulative? Maybe. But perhaps, I simply realize that like most males on this planet he needs to be needed. I’m simply providing that for him. Justified the angle nicely, didn’t I?

My oldest daughter, yep, that’s the 19 almost 20-year-old, makes me laugh. She has an acerbic wit that she must have inherited from her father, because I still have my smart a** attitude. I love her twisted sense of humor on her world, and her ability to laugh at herself. I project she’ll be immensely successful because she’s learning what to take seriously and what to let go.

My youngest daughter, who also happens to tower over me, has the most wonderful smile. And no, braces aren’t the reason. When she was little, her laugh started at the tips of her toes and traveled all the way through her. It didn’t matter what was funny or that it was even funny, but watching her laugh was infectious. She’s found her laugh again (hey, she’s thirteen. She’s not supposed to be funny at this point) AND her smile. I’d missed that smile for the past year. It’s wonderful to see that puberty and middle school hasn’t destroyed what has always been there.

My children make my life busy and real and grounded — fulfilling.

My children have taken over the remotes – thank heaven, because I don’t know how to program anything with the new technology and would be constantly watching a fuzzy screen. They also make sure mine and hubby’s favorite programs are recorded if we’re away from home.

My children make me realize that all the small stuff truly is small stuff. They’re happy, healthy, and occasionally well-adjusted. 2 ½ out of 3 isn’t bad.

My children still give me hugs, a kiss or two, loads of thank yous, and a great kick in the pants when I need one.

Which leads me to my last grateful memory.

As a writer, the road has been arduous and tiring, but my children have never stopped believing that I could accomplish my dream of publication. With that kind of support system, it’s impossible to fail.


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