When I was young, before I was old enough to write, my mother helped me with a Lucky List. I dictated all the things I was thankful for and she wrote them down. Anytime I was feeling sorry for myself she read it to me. Later, when I was old enough to read it myself, I was told to do so at the first sign of a Pity Party.
This Thanksgiving, I’ll be passing down the tradition to MP. Next time she doesn’t get that toy at the grocery store — the one she inevitably REEEALLLY wants — she’ll have her own list to remind her how very fortunate she already is.
Thirty-six years later, I still have mine — a simple handwritten list on lined notebook paper, written in blue ballpoint.
It’s packed away, tucked in a shoe box stuffed with birthday cards and souvenirs, most assuredly buried among day camp crafts and Disneyland Mouse Ears. Among Nancy Drew Mysteries and headless Barbies.
It’s there somewhere. Relegated to the past. I no longer need that list to remember how very lucky I am.
I’m reminded every day.