Thanks

I sit here, sweating. Tired. Exhausted, really. And covered in glitter and blood. Not my blood; Gabe's blood.
After a long, trying day, a not-the-greatest dinner (Buittoni tortellini didn't turn out to be as spectacular as it sounded),lunchbox-packing, cat litter changing and two overflowing baskets of laundry to fold and iron, I mostly just wanted to sit down.
Alas, my plan was foiled, when Gabe took off for his bedroom in footed pajamas...on the hardwood floor...and the wooden bench got in his way. Spurting, almost cartoon-like blood covered his face and I had no idea what to do. I didn't bleed as a child, because I am a girl. A girlie-girl. I played with dolls, legwarmers and FAD makeup. Quietly. Bloodlessly.

I picked him up, trying to ignore the fact that my shirt was quickly becoming speckled in red and his screams were only making it come faster. I plopped him on the kitchen counter and grabbed the paper towels, trying to mop through the mangling to find the source. As it turns out, it was just a small cut, and I immediately recalled that head wounds just produce more blood than other areas of the body. Okay. I can deal with this. I searched the medicine cabinet for the right bandage; a butterfly would have been my choice. I cursed myself for the 112th time, because every time I open that cabinet I think I need to organize this soon. And I do. Need to organize it, that is.

I didn't have a butterfly, or at least I didn't find one. I settled on a cotton pad, some gauze tape and an antibiotic ointment. After a shirt change, I'm now sitting next to my boy on the couch, because there's no way I'm letting him go to sleep right now. I'm sitting, doing what I was going to do, earlier, till the mayhem began. I was going to write about how my 30th wasn't that big of a deal, after all. But as John Lennon said, "Life is what happens while you're busy making other plans." Remind me to quit planning.

Anyway, I realize I kind of freaked out about turning 30. It wasn't that bad. The things that were important still are, and the things that weren't, well, they're still not. I'm realizing more and more that despite the heart-attacks my children like to give me, they are my entire life. I think anyone who becomes a mother and thinks their life can possibly resemble anything it did before is crazy. Is that mean? This life, this mom life, is worlds away from the "old me."

And as Thanksgiving approaches, and I see all my Facebook friends posting the things they're thankful for, I guess it boils down to the simple things in my life that I'm most thankful for. I'm thankful that I have a washer and dryer to produce these overflowing baskets of laundry. I'm thankful for the money to buy even the not-so-great dinners. I'm thankful for Isaac, who always likes the lunches I pack and reads to me each morning, for Ella, who dresses up in my pantyhose and her brothers' t-shirts and shrieks "Gook at me, Mommy! Am I so cute?"....for Brett's ability to be flexible and good-spirited in the worst scheduling circumstances ever,and for the rest of my family who...all have their own qualities. I'm thankful that I had Sarge, the best dog ever, who loved me more than I ever had the right to be loved. And for this bloody kid, who says "you would never laugh at me for having this tape and stuff stuck to me, would you, Mommy?"
No, I wouldn't. Ever.
"Is my blood done coming, Mommy?"
I sure hope so.
"How does tape stick, Mommy? You should get that eyeshadow on TV, Mommy. You could look like Halloween all the time. Do you think I should wear my pajamas to school tomorrow? Can I drink hot apple cider for my breakfast again?"
sigh.
I'm thankful for that. I'm really, really thankful for that.
Oh, and the glitter. I've left you hanging about that, and you're dying to know how I am covered in blood and glitter, right?
Yes.
I was starting to make a wreath. A Christmas wreath.
Because that's just around the corner, too, you know.