It’s not Thank You Note Friday. And I am not Jimmy Fallon. I do want to give thanks, however, for the things that keep my fingers from slipping from their clutch on the figurative railing from which I dangle.
Thank you, Cracklin Oat Bran, for basically being tiny little oatmeal cinnamon cookies that I didn’t have to make.
Thank you, Stickers Doctor and nurse Chantelle, for treating my traveling freak show and me like we are the nicest people you’ve ever met when we stop by for a simple strep culture and require the entire office staff to help swab Jack’s throat.
Thank you, Portlandia, for cracking up Dutch and I before bed with that Battlestar Gallactica episode. Keep Portland weird.
Thank you, shop vac, for holding onto important documents for us when Jack sucks them up from off the counter.
Thank you, Eldest Son, for inviting your six-year-old brother to ride bikes with you to the gas station, and for buying him peanut butter cups with your own money. Brothers are cool.
Thank you, twelve-year-old Sunday school class that I teach, for being you. I heart your little sass pants as much as you heart the Kit Kats and Milky Ways I bring for those who participate.
Thank you, fall break, for being over.
Thank you, October, for being so pretty. And for reminding me that nothing gold can stay.