I know many of us have jack shit to be thankful for. Because if you're like me, you're thinking things along the lines of: I'm thankful my daughter died here, and not where we used to live. (No offense to where I used to live, which was perfectly lovely, but the family, neighborhood, and especially medical situation here is wayyyyyyyyy better.) I'm thankful she died in our arms and not hooked up to machines with doctors working on her. I'm thankful one of my two daughters is alive. And really, if that's what I'm reduced to giving thanks for, that's pretty grim and sad, no? No one should be in a position to make such positive sounding propositions out of a dungheap: I'm thankful the IED only took my one leg and one eye. I'm thankful the fire destroyed my house and everything I own, but not my family. I'm thankful for this tasteless but warm dinner, because it's far better than what I normally get seeing as I live under a bridge.
Perhaps this holiday is made for the downtrodden, as a chance to reexamine life and just be grateful for existence (although I'm sure for some, existence is not all it's cracked up to be). Maybe living through hell should make us grateful for life, or family, or something. Or maybe it's for the rest of humanity to just be grateful that they're not us. I'm not sure I'm feeling so big and magnanimous, mature and introspective this year. I think I'll take a pass on the meaning and significance and aim right for the crass aspects: stuffing, gravy, pie and football. But, I must sheepishly confess that I am a bit thankful that I decided to venture out and do this blog business, and have met a most supportive, interesting, smart, and funny group of deadbabymommas and supporters thereof to help keep me sane. Have a spoonful of something bad for you, on me.