Like a prayer

Twice in recent weeks we've hosted dinner guests who begin their meals by recounting all of the things they're thankful for on any particular day. It's a lovely custom, and we're trying to adopt (steal) it for ourselves. Usually, we remember halfway through the meal.

We are not, you see, the most prayerful people. I'm not entirely sure about the whole god thing, and Judybat ... well, Judybat knows that when my father and stepmother are in town, she's supposed to wait to eat until they've prayed. But it almost invariably takes a kick under the table to remind her.

But grateful -- oh, are we ever grateful. Grateful for modern medicine keeping both of us from dying in childbirth. Grateful to have a little boy who is as whiz-bang smart as TheBoy keeps turning out to be. Grateful to have a baby who is already capable of sleeping at night for a four and a half hour stretch. Grateful to have so many wonderful friends, and so few real worries, and reasonably decent health. Grateful that my Zoloft will, I'm told, eventually kick in. Grateful that TheBoy has adjusted to the fact that both his mommies have become sleep-deprived, cranky harpies with little permanent emotional damage, at least that we can tell.

With all that in mind, we've started making this countdown of gratitude a regular part of the dinnertime ritual. The fact that we usually don't remember until midway through the meal should not be taken as a sign that we're not serious about it.