This Thanksgiving holiday I am most thankful for the fact that I do not live on Little House on the Prairie. Although it’s felt like it this week!

Our water heater went out Sunday and it has taken several days to get a replacement part. Several days of cold showers and washing my hair in the kitchen sink. In addition our garage door opener quit working a few weeks ago and I’ve had to manually open and close it. I know, the horror.

About a month ago our garbage disposal had to be replaced and for several days I thought the world was going to end because I had to scrape off our plates in the trash.

A revelation came to me this week as I was grouchy about not having hot water and still complaining about the garage door. I’m spoiled. Maybe not spoiled, but I’ve taken for granted the everyday things that make my life easy.

So this year I recognize all the little things in life that I usually take for granted.

A husband who’ll boil endless pots of water so I can take a warm bath.

My son who’s huge heart has taught me the true meaning of unconditional love.

That the lights come on every time I flip a switch.

That when I’m sick I can get excellent medical care.

For a job that recognizes I have a family and they are my first priority.

That I don’t have to worry about where our next meal will come from.

That our house is a warm home.

For all the opportunities I’ve been given.

For family and friends who make me feel loved.

Simply for my life.

Happy Thanksgiving.

I drove over 6 hours to my husband’s step-sisters wedding this weekend and stayed with my in-laws. Alone. With a 5 year old.

My husband ending up having to work at the last minute and being as though our son was in the wedding it was important that we attend. After a few promises of cleaning the carpet and a big Christmas gift we were headed north and my husband was enjoying some peace and quiet.

Hearing the familiar story about how my father-in-law sprained his ankle 20 years ago and it has caused him problems ever since is painful. The biggest laugh of my weekend came when he proceeded to tell me about some tendons he tore in his knee the other week and how his chiropractor “fixed him up.”

This visit provided a new realm of entertainment. The wedding was the usual chaos:

Bride doesn’t invite her mother’s family causing hurt feelings. Bride decides the ring bearer should be at the church 4 hours before the wedding. Bride catches groom drinking shots before the wedding and threatens to call it off 5 minutes before the wedding. Bride’s 15 year old daughter is only 12 years younger than her new step-dad.

You know…the usual.

The kicker was when my father-in-law escorted me down the aisle to a pew and had me sitting 8 rows back. Really I didn’t care where I sat, but the idea of sitting 2 rows behind his adopted brother (whom he just met a few months ago) was kind of insulting. Shows where I rank.

I didn’t drive 6 hours, spend the weekend alone with them and wrestle a 5 year old at a church for 4 hours to sit behind his long lost brother.

I’m pretty used to my in-laws odd nature. I make it a point not to drink the water when we visit, because I’m convinced that is why the are all crazy.

But then again this is the man who thinks navy and black are one color.

It’s a number. A number I’ve tried to avoid. In fact, I’ve spent the past year trying to bypass it. People ask about it and I shrug it off.

To most people it’s just a number. To me it’s much more.

It represents a significant time in my life. Despite my avoidance it’s still quickly approaching and I must come to terms with it.

Twenty seven is:
*The number of times I’m sure I told the fireman holding my hand, “Please tell them it wasn’t my fault.”
*The number of days I was on morphine.
*How many days passed before I was able to kiss my son.
*How old I was when I celebrated my birthday in the hospital after the accident.
*How old I was when my grandmother and cousin died within 3 weeks of each other.
*The number of doctors, specialists and surgeons I’ve been seen by.
*The number of months I spent in physical and occupational therapy.
*The number of times I’ve prayed silently, please no more.

When twenty six came around last January I prayed that it would end. That this would be as high as it got, but I knew it wasn’t over. I am thankful for the months in between, but that dread has set in yet again.

I’m familiar with the routine. Usually, I spend the month before fretting about the pain, worrying about whether or not it will be worth it and how our lives will go during the weeks I re-cooperate.

I know that I am not easy to live with after surgery, but my husband and family have all put up with me twenty six times. They know the aftermath of anesthesia, staples and crutches all too well.

And today the number represents how many days until we do it all over again.

Can I just say how incredibly lucky I feel to have found that one person meant for me in this world? I truly believe in soul mates that are handpicked by God. Sometimes lust and love get confused and we fall for someone who isn’t meant to be around for the long-haul. Sure they’re fun and you enjoy being with them, but they usually aren’t the type to stick out the storms that we weather throughout life.

I met a couple guys that I could have made a life with, but I strongly question whether they would have stuck with me over the past couple of years and I now know what I had with them wasn’t unconditional love.

There was a time in college when all my friends were either engaged or in a serious relationship. I was in serious drought mode for a few years, but I had a few really bad dates that I’m thankful for. Those bad dates made me realize the importance of waiting for the right person to come along and not to settle just to be satisfied.

First, there was the blind double date with my cousin Stephanie. She promised me that he was as tall as I was (5′10). Guess what? He wasn’t even close! That started the evening out on a bad note. We saw a movie and the guy needed a booster seat to see, so we sat near the very front.

We went to dinner afterwards where everyone but me was over 21 and could drink, so I was the designated driver. After a few beers this date proceeded to tell a horrific story of a dog that was barking on his property one night. He claims he shot the dog, cooked the meat and ate it. The story coincided with our steaks arriving at the table. Dinner was then over in my books.

Over Christmas break one semester my loving father set me up with some client’s son who was in town for the holidays. I only agreed to this blind date because the guy was in medical school. I’m shallow I know. It had its awkward moments and the conversation was pretty light until he asked if I’d read any good books lately.

My response was that the last book I read was “The Great Gatsby” in high school because I couldn’t find the Cliff Notes. Well that set this scholar into hysterics.

I can’t imagine how red my face was as the other people dining around us were looking, while he ranted about plagiarism and lectured me on taking the easy way out. Dinner ended a little early that night, as did the date.

You’d think I’d learn my lesson, but I let a friend set me up with a guy she knew who was involved in a youth ministry program at college. I figured this guy should be harmless, but I over-estimated the power of Jesus. When he picked me up in the lobby of my dorm the first words out of his mouth were, “Look, I know I’m hot and by the end of the night you’ll be lusting after me, but I’m saving myself for marriage. So hands off.”

I kid you not. He came out waving his freak flag with both hands.

That was the end of my blind dates. I figured a life of celibacy was far better than the guys I’d encountered. Thankfully being patient paid off in many, many ways.

I came home from my roller derby weekend to find this in our living room.

Most wives wouldn’t complain about a Christmas tree they didn’t have to put together. I’m not most wives.

Take a close look at the tree.

See those pine cones? (How could you miss them? There are 84!) We have been debating a new tree and had looked at this exact tree the previous weekend. My answer was no. As in absolutely not in my house. I did not like the pine cones. I thought I made that clear in the store when I said it looked like someone had pooped on the branches.

Can you understand my anger when I arrived home to find the pine cone tree in our house?

After much debate and a few decorations, I decided not to cut them off…this year. We’ll see if they grow on me. If not it’s snip-snip.