We have a Thanksgiving tradition in our house.
It started nine years ago when I decided my children took their good fortune for granted.
They, of course, didn't think they had it so good. We had just moved out of the "big" house into a "smaller" house in a "lesser" part of town. Z-man had to change schools (fourth grade). We were pretty much in financial ruin, thanks to he who shall not be named, and every expenditure was subject to discussion and veto.
But although it was definitively lesser circumstances, we were not out on the streets by any stretch. And I felt that a certain group of children needed to be shocked out of their pity party.
So, I searched for a project.
After a false start or two, we settled on something we have now done for eight years.
Every Thanksgiving morning, we get up early and drive over to our local senior center, where we load up the back of the minivan with turkey dinners for homebound seniors and the disabled.
We all go.
Wonderhubby, the Drummer, the Drama King, Z-man and the Roo-girl. (J-Bear spends Thanksgiving with her mother, but always regrets that she misses this.)
We each have our jobs. Wonderhubby drives, I navigate and carry the official paperwork. The turkey, the milk and juice containers, the pie, the bread and butter are each carried lovingly to front doors by the helpful hands of my children.
Our favorite homes are the ones where the recipient invites us in to chat. That happens about half the time, and always makes our day.
Every year, as we travel from house to house -- where the elderly and infirm have to be brought their turkey dinner by strangers -- my children begin to appreciate their family.
This is a tradition that never fails to bring us closer.
That never fails to make me marvel at their caring.
That never fails to make me love my children more.
That never fails to make me grateful.
When you serve up your turkey dinner with your loved ones tomorrow, please remember those who depend on others to bring their holiday feast.