It’s the day before Thanksgiving.
I should be baking pies.
Or peeling potatoes. Or putting dough out to rise.
It’s the day before a major holiday. I’m supposed to be doing things. Getting ready. Cooking, cleaning, polishing the outside veneer of my life.
Instead, I am being thankful.
Thankful for the chance to sit here, quietly, holding a sleeping baby. Thankful for full arms. Thankful that I have the privilege of feeling a fuzzy head against my cheek. Thankful for every breath, for every sigh.
There are many things I should be doing to get ready for Thanksgiving. Instead, I choose to give thanks.
Sigh.
This is as it should be.