I just learned this saying from a real estate agent who was passing out flyers in my neighborhood the other day. He mentioned it to me after I asked about the house down the street that was taking a while to sell.
The house has a very taste specific exterior paint scheme and interior furnishings. And a less than desirable lot size and angle. I’m not thinking they obsessively watch as many “Get this Sold” HGTV episodes as I do. Not sure if that’s anything to be proud of.
Which is why today the house has a new listing agent and sign …. and a reduced price.
Okay, so I think this gratitude experiment is definitely working because I can’t narrow this down to just one thing to be grateful for today.
A fortuitous and great conversation I had with a mother I barely knew at my sons’ haircut place yesterday which tipped me off on college coaches. I seriously believe there are no accidents in life.
A wonderful call from my son’s tennis coach late yesterday. These tennis coaches continue to impress me with their genuine concern for the boys’ success. And my son is making me proud.
The fact that my youngest son actually wanted to snuggle with me last night like old times (he is quickly getting way too cool for this so it was an unexpected treat). And that he actually liked his haircut yesterday.
The fact that my kids can forgive me when I lose my temper sometimes and that I have the ability to apologize and help them realize that we are all human.
This morning after carpool drop-off as I drove through my winding suburban neighborhood streets I noticed an annual sighting. Not annual because annual flowers were involved, but annual in that each and every spring since I have lived in this neighborhood, it happens.
The same well -intended neighbor goes hog wild at the nursery at the first promising sight of spring and covers her yard with gallon and half gallon containers of roses, geraniums and petunias – all placed precisely where she intends to plant them. If history serves, these poor plants will begin withering by late tomorrow and continue to yearn for a permanent home or some hydration at least – until their death by early July – when they will be baked to perfection – as crunchy as Lay’s potato chips.
They will then sit, posthumously, for another week or two until a neighbor, or possibly even the well intended would-be future planter of such plantings decides to throw in the towel, admitting that sometimes the best laid plants simply don’t happen.