This year, instead of listing what I’m thankful for, I thought I’d make a list of who I’m thankful to. Feel free to play along.

I’m thankful to the many, many readers I have, those who follow me from location to location, filling my inbox with love and tips, recipes and hints, and occasionally, a swift kick in the rear. I’m thankful to the people who hire me, those who keep me writing and thinking and doing. I’m thankful to the karate instructors who keep my kids in line, me in shape and make it fun while doing so. I’m thankful to those who stock the grocery stores, the drug stores, the gas stations and the book stores - they make it easier to do the things I need to do with the supplies I need.

I’m thankful to the inventors of automobiles, planes, Tylenol, sliced bread in a bag, frozen chicken nuggets, instant oatmeal and Hot Pockets. I salute the creators of toilet paper, paper towels, disposable diapers, hot water heaters, straightening irons and plastic baggies. My hats off to those who pick up the trash, clean the sewers, repair my van and service the cable lines. Without you, none of the magic would be possible. Mad props to the aestheticians who slim down my brows, defuzz my ’stache and smooth out my feet. You rock stars make a bad situation tolerable.

There certainly would be no “me” without the teachers, the coaches and the friends who make it possible for one woman to have six kids in 100 different activities. Those who’ve gone before me, paving the way and telling me their errors - just in time for me to make my own version of the same mistakes. Those whose blogs I read, whose discussion boards I frequent, who have Facebook profiles and Twitter presences - you keep me sane and entertained.

Most of all, thanks to my family, who put up with an AWFUL lot of drama and trauma from me throughout the year. You all are the best. Have a super time being Thankful this year. Bad economy, declining dollar, falling stocks - we still have a lot to be grateful for.

Wake up to the words, “My bed is wet, Mama.”  For some reason, you feel compelled to check for yourself instead of just stripping the bed, as if your child would lie about such a thing just for kicks.  Notice that the bed is not just damp, but that it rivals the swampy conditions found in the Everglades.

On the way to school, categorize and prioritize your day’s tasks thusly:  Should-do, Need-to, Said-I-would, Have-to, Dying-to. Rearrange these several times, until you have ignored them all. Drop off your child at school. When the teacher tells you that there is now a confirmed case of pink eye circulating the school in addition to foot and mouth disease, rotovirus, and head lice, heave an audible sigh. Go to work at your desk, for example, and clear your schedule for the next five to seven days, knowing that your child is certain to catch all four ailments that day. Repeat, until June.

During the day, give yourself a headache asking yourself why you’re not doing more with your life.  If you have a full bottle of pain reliever around (Motrin, if you’re not swayed by advertising controversy), draw harsh comparisons between yourself and those you consider to be “successful.” Forgo drinking water and eating healthy foods that day in favor of consuming only those things consisting of caffeine and/or salt.

When the economy tanks, pretend to understand why you should be freaking out, then secretly congratulate yourself for not having any money to lose in the financial black hole of 2008. When you notice the fallout directly affecting you in the form of a sharply reduced income—say a reduction along the lines of one hundred percent—genuinely freak out.  To avoid worrying others, do your freaking out between the hours of 3 and 5 AM. Repeat, until June.

At the end of one of your daily freak out sessions, realize, very abruptly, that you’re 39 years old.  Decide to become a librarian, based on someone once telling you that the average age of Library Science students is 39. Or is it the mean age? Try and remember what the difference is between averages and means.  Forget it; write down, “become a librarian” on a slip of paper and leave it on the nightstand so that you can look into it later.  Find it the next day while you’re straightening up, and misread your own handwriting as, “become a libertarian.” Scratch your head, and try to remember why it seemed like a good idea to drastically change your political affiliation.

Start a magazine, a radio show, or secret society by reserving the domain name. Then, run completely out of juice writing the mission statement. Seconds into transforming yourself into a member of the libertarian party, stop short and gasp. What if the note you wrote said “lesbian,” not “libertarian?” Imagine the changes you’ll have to make.

In an attempt to entertain and distract you from yourself, see David Sedaris in concert. Instead of enjoying the show, spend the time asking yourself, “Why can’t I do that?”  Go home, write down, “Become an author who writes funny little stories about life and reads them aloud to audiences around the world. Rake in the dough.”  The next morning, decide that it would be enough simply to spend a few minutes writing a funny little story. Feel a little better, a little happier, a little lighter.  Make the bed.  Congratulate yourself while you go to the sink to wash your face. Try not to curse aloud upon discovering that you have pink eye.

I’m writing this as I attempt to block out the sounds of a fierce gun fight between four of my kids and my husband. I think my husband is actually making the most noise. “HA! I got you, you varmit!” wars with pounding feet, “Pow! pow!” and the ever present refrain, “I’m an old cowhand, from the Rio Grande…”

I’m happy with where I am, don’t get me wrong. I’ve got a great husband, a pack of wonderful, if headstrong, kids, and everyone is mostly healthy. We have a nice house and plenty of food. (Oy, do we have plenty of food. My jeans are getting tight.) But I’m not where I thought I’d be, twenty or so years ago. I never even thought I’d have one child, much less six. The mind, it boggles.

When I graduated high school, my plan was simple. I’d taken ballet my entire life, and thought I was destined to become a star. Except, you know, I didn’t take that whole “body type” thing seriously, and my first real audition was my last real audition. The embarrassment still causes me to blush. So, ok - no career in dance, and Broadway was out because, hello, I can’t carry a tune in a bucket. So I decided to go to culinary school. I dreamed of becoming a world renowned caterer. Except for the whole classroom side of the degree. I could cook like nobody’s business, but the book part eluded me.

At any one point in time, I’ve thought seriously about almost every career type there is. My mother loves to tell the tale of my first career choice: “Mommy, I’m going to be a nun. Or a go-go dancer. I’m not sure!” Indeed. The choices to young kids today are vast, mind boggling and as varied as, well, a nun and a go-go dancer. Where I am now, that’s where I’m destined to be. But, uh, with more income would be nice.

Tell me - what did you think you’d do, when you were younger? Is it near where you are now, or three time zones away? What kind of detours did you make?