I’ve shared a number of family pictures over the past few weeks.
And maybe saying “I’m thankful for my family” on Thanksgiving seems like a cop out.
But I’m just so freaking thankful for the three other people that live under my roof.
Of course, I’m also thankful for a lot of our other family, both given and chosen. For my daughter and her family. For our close friends, near and far. For the children of friends whom I care for deeply. For my parents, my in-laws, our siblings, their spouses, and our nephews. For aunts and uncles and awesome cousins. For grandparents—especially for the memories they leave behind when they leave. For our big dumb dog.
This morning, I stood in our kitchen, mixing up the stuffing my grandmother used to make. The smells overwhelmed me, but still I kept on because I knew my people wanted to eat it. For as it was a part of my childhood, my growing up, it has become a part of my husband’s present, my kids’ growing up. My husband washed up the dishes as I dirtied them; we listened to Christmas music together as the boys ran in and out of the kitchen. Soon the whole house smelled of what I can only describe as my grandmother’s love, passed down to my sons. My heart felt full in that moment.
The three other people that live under this roof, the three other people in the photo with me above, they mean the world to me. They keep me moving forward; they force me to look beyond the immediate and look at the bigger picture. They make me want to do better, be better.
I am thankful for their love, their noise, their helpfulness, their joy. I am thankful for the fun they bring to my serious side. I am thankful for the fresh eyes they give me with which to look at the world around me, to look at myself. I am thankful for their patience when I make mistakes; I am thankful for their forgiveness.
Mostly, I am thankful that they are mine, that I am theirs.