BUCKING THE SYSTEM: GOOD INTENTIONS ARE ENOUGH TO BE THANKFUL FOR

Sometimes it's not easy to remember to be thankful.

Take, for example, my husband's daily proclamations this week of his plans to clean our house. You have to be around the Buck household to truly understand why such declarations are necessary.

At any rate, I would come home each evening worn out from a day of work/school/miscellaneous and hoping beyond hope that action had finally followed Patrick's seemingly sincere utterances. Instead, what I usually found was a half-completed task that had been interrupted by friends wanting to preview/experience/borrow/learn how to play with the new video games or CD burner Patrick had acquired over the weekend. The tasks -- which often worsened an already bad situation -- would then remain uncompleted as Patrick headed to work and I collapsed in an exhausted heap on the couch or bed after another failed attempt to feed the children anything outside of gas station chicken wings or peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

And speaking of the kids, there's another area where my thankfulness has been lacking this week. My darling PJ is demonstrating he completely understands the meaning of the Terrible 2's. And Jerry, at age 4, has recently developed an irritating habit of whining that sounds to my ears exactly like squeaky chalk on a chalkboard. When he's not whining, I realize he's developed a sneaking defiance that's more in keeping with his brother's personality than his own.

All in all, it's been a week short on thankfulness and long on questions regarding the major decisions of my life. It's definitely not the way a person wants to spend the week before Thanksgiving.

Everything came to a head Friday morning. Patrick arrived home to a still-slumbering household at 7 a.m., and we all woke up in horrible moods.

Patrick got the boys dressed while I desperately searched for the match to the loafer I wore on one foot. He brushed hair and teeth while I moved piles of clean clothes in search of a belt and socks appropriate for wear with tennis shoes (I never did find that other loafer).

I finally snapped after my freshly scrubbed living room floor was littered with a combination of donut sticks and spilled Kool-Aid, the breakfast Patrick had provided for the boys. I yelled and threatened and nearly cried and finally pushed coats on confused children and rushed them into a cold car covered in a layer of frost.

On the quiet ride to various drop-off points, I suddenly realized how lucky I am. My husband had just helped me prepare our family for the day, spilled Kool-Aid and donut sticks not withstanding. And even if he doesn't always get the job done, he does at least volunteer to help out with the housework, something a lot of women would appreciate and don't have.

And my children are beautiful, both in appearance and, more importantly, in spirit. They are, after all, kids, and cannot be expected to act like adults. Although they can be obstinate, defiant and argumentative, I must admit they got the traits honestly and in equal portion from my husband and me. I can't really be angry at them for acting like me.

With those ideas in mind, I walked PJ into his daycare and cajoled a kiss, belly laugh and "lo' you" out of him before leaving. Then I drove around the corner and dropped off Jerry at his preschool. We hugged, he gave me one of the smiles he inherited from me, and we shared an "I love you" on my way out the door.

I got in my car and put in the Al Green CD my husband had burned for me the day before, and then I said a quick prayer thanking God for all three of the men in my life.

Bring on the turkey and dressing.