Fifty things I’m grateful for — in honor of my 50th birthday. That was the plan.

The first one came to me immediately:

I’m grateful for my parents.

And then I realized there’s so much more to say on just that single gratitude.

So it may take me 50 days to get through 50 things I’m grateful for. Or I may do one post and decide this was a grand idea but one I don’t want to continue. Who knows. I make no promises.

But today: a few notes on parenting. Or, more accurately and more specifically, on my parents.

I’m grateful they chose to have me. Back then, it was a choice one could make. I don’t care to get into debates and such. But I know that a pregnancy is not always something welcomed. And I am grateful that my mother’s was.

I was told my parents had been trying for a few years; I was born four years after they married.

But after that, there wasn’t much waiting involved.

• I was an only child for just a few months when my mother found out she was pregnant again.
• I had just turned 3 when my parents welcomed their third child.
• I was a couple of months away from my 5th birthday when they welcomed their only son. (For those of you keeping track, we’re up to four now.)
• And when I was 8, the youngest of our clan arrived.

I’m grateful my parents chose all of us.

But today’s post is about me. Ha. No, not exactly. It’s about them.

I’m grateful for piano lessons. And all the other lessons my parents paid for–for me and for my siblings. Because whenever one of my siblings was at dance or Boy Scouts or horseback riding, that was one less voice in our otherwise noisy household. I like quiet. It was rare back then.

I’m grateful I was able to grow up in a family where we never knew how much money it took to provide for us. I remember, was I in my 20s or 30s?, my mother talking about how she and my father, when he first started his business, would sit down at the kitchen table and decide what bills for the business they could afford to pay that month. I was stunned. I never knew that was a choice they had to make. And am grateful I grew up not knowing that was once a consideration.

I’m grateful they were sure to have our grandparents be in our lives. That was a choice on their part. My mother told me, again years later, that the reason we went to Grandma Gallo’s for meatballs every Sunday was because she wanted us to know our grandmothers.

A weekly visit to Grandma Gallo’s was one thing . . . but choosing to build a home with an apartment over the garage for Grandma Doss–that was a bigger commitment. I am grateful that, from the time I was 5 until her death when I was in my 20s, Grandma’s place was only a few steps away. And the door that connected our home to hers? It was rarely locked. I’m grateful we were always welcomed there.

I’m grateful for family dinners. Was I grateful at the time? I doubt I ever considered it one way or the other. I just assumed that was how everyone did it. Dad would call before he left his store, which meant we had 45 minutes before we’d gather around the table for whatever Mom was making.

At some point prior to his estimated arrival time, one of us children would be tasked with ringing the cowbell that sat on top of the pie cabinet. We’d head outside to the end of the deck and let it wail. All neighborhood mothers knew the sound of the Gallo dinner bell; they would notify any Gallo children playing in or around their homes that it was time for us to go back to our own home for dinner.

I’m grateful I never knew hunger. I’m grateful my parents always welcomed others to our dinner table. “What’s one more?” my mother would say.

I’m grateful for the lazy Susan custom-made for our round family dinner table. Any dinner guests were reminded to turn in spoon handles before spinning it. And to look around to be sure no one was actively scooping something onto their plate before moving it!

I’m grateful spilt milk was simply taken care of as a fact of life.

I’m grateful I eventually got my own room. What a gift for an introverted child. I’m grateful for the framed posters–one of a koala and one of a panda, my two favorite animals at the time–that hung on my peach walls.

I’m grateful for all the efforts that went into tracking down my diary whenever one of my siblings discovered its hiding place and decided — instead of reading it and putting it back, which, in hindsight would have made more sense — to take it somewhere else, leaving me more than a bit fearful of them reading a complaint I’d made about them that was meant for my eyes only.

I’m grateful that money was saved for us to go to college and that my college education did not put me or my family in debt.

I’m grateful for all the home-cooked meals but also the birthday dinners where we could choose what we wanted Mom to make that night or, later, which restaurant we wanted the family to go to.

I’m grateful for all the waiters and waitresses who dealt with our family of 7 arriving for dinner at their place of work.

Which reminds me of all the airline stewards and stewardesses who also helped my family as we embarked on another adventure. I’m grateful my parents took us places. All of us. At the same time!

For those of you that have children and take them places, let’s pause here. There were no televisions in cars. We had travel-sized Battleship and ConnectFour games. And let me remind you: there were five children on these adventures. Two parents. They were clearly outnumbered. But they did it anyway.

I’m grateful Mom got back in the car after she made Dad pull over on the side of the highway so she could get out. Sometimes the poor woman just needed a break. And I’m grateful she sometimes took it. Sometimes that meant the moment Dad walked in the door for dinner, she would walk right out and say, “Your turn!” I’m grateful she always came back.

I’m grateful great-Grandma Riggetano told her about throwing plates at walls (“Not your good ones–old ones”). I’m grateful I’ve never thrown one. But also grateful for how good it must have felt to express some anger every once in a while so that we would all be forced to get out of our own worlds for a moment.

(Like my mother, and Grandma Riggetano before her, I do have some old plates in a cabinet should I ever need to toss one at a wall. . . )

I’m grateful for all the trips my parents have taken to visit me. Boston, Bethesda, Scranton, North Carolina, Spain. I’m grateful for all the stuff of mine they’ve stored in their home or barn over the years–then transported to my next home, once I decided where that would be.

I’m grateful they never said, “No” when I told them, at 16, that I wanted to spend six weeks studying in a foreign country. I’m also grateful for all the times they did say,”no” when it was appropriate.

I’m grateful my parents didn’t let their fears get in the way of my dreams. I’m grateful my mother didn’t tell me until years later how she cried after dropping me off at Girl Scout camp. I’m grateful my mother has her faith. I’m not sure how a parent would have otherwise handled their child saying, “I’m going to walk across Spain. By myself.” I later learned she went to bed every night “putting it in God’s hands.” I’m grateful she has God in her life.

I’m grateful my parents are still healthy enough to travel. I’m grateful that, in a country where driving is such a part of one’s life, they are able to afford a car. (Though I do hope one day soon it’s one that drives them wherever they want to go.)

I’m grateful I grew up with family traditions. Laying the hay in the manger each time we did something good during Advent–so that baby Jesus would have plenty of comfort upon his arrival. Grandma Gallo coming over to help us make Christmas cookies. (I thought this was just so she could spend some more time with us. I later learned it’s because my mother wasn’t good at baking, but didn’t want us to miss out on baking cookies at Christmas time.)

I’m grateful I’ve managed to, quite easily in fact, come up with 39 things I’m grateful for in just one post. Make that 40.

I’m grateful for the first class I took at the John C. Campbell Folk School. It was a writing class where the marvelous Glenda Beall shepherded us toward our goal of telling our stories. I’m grateful my classmate Jessica showed us how to write a blog. I’m grateful that, months later, when a friend said, “Do you have an email list? How can I keep up with what you’re doing next?” I remembered Jessica and started this blog.

I’m grateful to all of you for reading my words over the years. I’m grateful to all of you who have listened to my stories–of my parents, my siblings, my travels, and eventually of my new adventures with my husband. I’m grateful I found someone who not only goes on adventures with me but also doesn’t mind (too much) when I take off on adventures of my own–not because I don’t want him with me, but because we’re two adults who don’t always share the same interests, neither of whom ever want to stop the other from doing something they love.

I’m grateful for whatever forces have made it such that I have so much in my life to be grateful for. I’m grateful to every person who has ever encouraged me along the way–but also to anyone who has doubted me, as often it’s made me even more grateful when I am able prove them wrong.

I’m grateful I had time today to write this post. And I’m grateful to you–YOU who are reading it right now. You have a choice as to how you spend your time, and the fact that you chose to spend a few minutes reading this makes me smile. Thank you.

And now, for my 50th birthday, I’d love nothing more than for you to tell me one (or 50!) things you are grateful for.

With love and gratitude,

Rebecca