Have you been noticing the amount of gratitude hanging out on the web lately?  Bloggers posting things for which they're thankful, people on Facebook pledging to share one morsel of gratitude every day of the month, you know – thankful, thankful, thankful…

I think that it is human nature for people to try to find the silver lining in the storm cloud, to seek a sliver of optimism in everyday life.  It seems that as the economic future of so many is so uncertain and people are forced to take leave of some of the "wants" to satisfy all of the "needs," a genuine appreciation of life emerges.  I'm feeling a strong sense of "it could be worse" from many people as this holiday season approaches.

Including in my own son, a six-year-old ruffian with a head of thick golden hair and a mouth trading in the old teeth for newer, larger, and definitely more crooked ones.  You see, he took a tumble at school yesterday while running around pretending to be a wolf in the forest chasing another friend who was pretending to be a turkey running away from a friend pretending to be a pilgrim.

I had just finished picking the girls up after my morning at work and was loading them up to take my four-year-old to her dentist appointment when I got a call from the school nurse asking me to come to the school and calm him down so he could get back to class.  I took one look at him and knew there would be no calming him down, so I scooted down the hallway to grab his stuff from his locker and helped him hop to the waiting van.  Incidentally, we did make it to the dentist on time and had no cavities, yay!

My husband and I decided to give it a night and see how the foot was this morning and when he wouldn't put any weight on it today, I said it was time to call the doctor.  My son was terrified, he cried and begged and pleaded with me to not take him to the doctor.  I said, "Honey, if it isn't broken, the doctor will just tell us you need to rest it more, but if it is broken, you need to have it treated so it can get better and, last I checked, mommy is not a doctor."

He whimpered as I carried him into the doctor's office, a fifty-pound backpack that dripped warm tears of anxiety on my neck.  He likes his doctor, so he perked up during the examination, but didn't like the order to get x-rays taken.  In fact, he was so keyed up at this point that he refused a wheelchair and I once again slung him on my back to get him to and from radiology.  When the diagnosis came in (fractured first metatarsal), he all out wailed.  The doctor was sympathetic, the nurse was sympathetic, I imagine the entire group of patients in the surrounding examination rooms was sympathetic.  But nothing stopped his wailing.

He was completely convinced that the boot he was prescribed to wear until we meet with the orthopedic doc on Tuesday was going to make him look stupid.  He went on and on and on about it for nearly an hour, stating that he just wasn't going to return to first grade until he didn't need the boot or a cast.  I assured him that school wasn't an option and that he would have as much help as he needed at there.  I couldn't deflect his fears fast enough, they piled higher and higher until he fell asleep in the car, exhausted from the emotional afternoon.

Tonight, as I tucked him into his bed, I anticipated an onslaught of more concerns.  But my son surprised me.  He drowsily draped his arms around my neck for a goodnight hug and said, "OK, Mom.  I don't like having a broken foot, but I don't think this is going to be as bad as I thought it was.  I'm going to be OK."

I kissed his cheek and smiled, "I think you will, too, honey."

"And, mom?  Thanks for taking such good care of me today when I was so scared.  You always know what to say to make me feel better when I'm sick or hurt.  That's what I am thankful for this Thanksgiving."

Oh, my dear son, so full of worry and doubt, I am thankful for our optimistic nature and  that, once the shock had worn off, you could find that little pumpkin-pie wedge of hope.