Debbie Macomber - Thursdays at Eight

As soon as I learned Victoria would be at lunch, I should’ve found an excuse to get out of it, especially when Mother told me we’d be going to the Yacht Club. But with my current cash-flow difficulties, I’m not above accepting a free lunch.

Jeff’s been interesting lately. He seems to be fired up about acting again and asked if I’d recommend my agent. I was happy to pass on Gwen’s phone number and apparently they’re talking. I don’t know if she’ll take him on or not; that’s not my decision. Jeff took me to dinner to thank me. There’s a great Mexican place close to the gym. It was good to see him and talk shop, to recharge my own enthusiasm. Focus, that’s what it’s all about. No one else is going to do this for me.

I’m still bummed about not getting the toilet-brush commercial, but Gwen said the feedback from the director was positive. She’s planning to send me for another audition with the same guy, although she warned me this next one involves a dog. She didn’t say what kind, and asked if I liked puppies. Who doesn’t? But let’s not forget what W. C. Fields said about working with kids and dogs…Anyway, the director liked me, but didn’t think I was right for the role of fastidious housewife. I guess he must’ve taken a look at my apartment. Cleanliness and order aren’t exactly my forte. If God had meant women to do housework, He wouldn’t have created men first.

JULIA MURCHISON

“Parenthood: that state of being better chaperoned than you were before marriage.”

—Madeline Cox

January 1st

This leather-bound journal is a Christmas gift from my husband and I’ve been waiting until today to make my first entry. My hope is that every morning I’ll be filling the crisp, clean pages, writing out my thoughts, my concerns, my doubts, discovering who I am, one day at a time. That’s something I learned in the journal class, along with a whole lot more. Taking that class was one of the best things I’ve done for myself in ages.

It’s funny—here I am waxing poetic about this lovely journal that I’ve been waiting all week to start, and now that I have, I don’t know what to write.

I’ll begin with the kids, I guess. Adam and Zoe are growing up before my very eyes. It seems like only yesterday that they were babies. Now they’re both in their teens, and before Peter and I know it, they’ll be in college. It doesn’t seem possible that Adam will be driving this year! He’s champing at the bit to get behind the wheel. He’s ready, but I’m not sure Peter and I are.

Zoe at thirteen is turning into a real beauty. I look at her, so innocent and lovely, and can hardly believe my baby is already a young woman.

The Wool Station is a year old now. I’ve always loved crafts, and opening my own small knit shop was a risky venture. I thought about it for quite a while before making the commitment. Peter’s encouragement was all I really needed and he gave it to me. The store’s been wonderful for us both, bringing us together. And business has been good. The recent articles about all the celebrities knitting these days certainly didn’t hurt! More and more women are looking for ways to express themselves creatively; as well, knitting can calm and relax you—as effectively as meditation, according to one magazine I read.

Last year my shop brought in thirty-two percent more than my projected gross income. (Peter’s calculations, not mine. I’m hopeless with numbers.) At this point, we’re putting all the profit back into the business, boosting the inventory at every opportunity. I’m not making enough of a profit to draw a salary yet, but it won’t be long. A year, two at the most. I just wish I was feeling better physically. Lately—ever since the flu bug hit me before Thanksgiving—I’ve been under the weather. I didn’t bounce back nearly as fast as I thought I would. Being thrust into the holiday season right afterward wasn’t any help. I barely had a week to regroup when it was time for the big yarn sale. Then the shop was crazy all through December. Added to that were the usual Christmas obligations—buying gifts, wrapping them, sending cards, entertaining, etc. When I think about everything I’ve had to do, it’s no wonder I haven’t been feeling well.

Peter’s mother flew in for Christmas Day. She had a meeting in the area and combined business with pleasure. I’m writing this with my teeth gritted. I don’t enjoy dealing with my mother-in-law, who in my opinion never should have been a mother. She’s cold and self-important and all she seems to care about is her career and her volunteer projects. Naturally, I’m grateful she had Peter, otherwise I wouldn’t have my husband, but I swear the woman doesn’t possess a single maternal instinct. Peter was left with a succession of nannies and baby-sitters most of his childhood while his mother climbed the corporate ladder and sat on one volunteer board after another. I don’t disparage her commitment, just where it’s been directed for the past forty years. It irks me no end that she can fly halfway across the United States for her causes, but practically ignores her only son and her grandchildren. Okay, enough. I’ve already written copious pages about my relationship with my mother-in-law.

Onto a far more pleasant subject, and that’s the Thursday Morning Breakfast Club. We’re each supposed to choose a word for the year. I’ve been giving it some thought, but my mind was made up almost from the minute Liz mentioned the idea. I wanted to wait to be sure this is truly my word. Experience tells me my first instinct is often the best. Still, I’ve taken this week between Christmas and New Years to mull it over, and I think I’m going to go with GRATITUDE.

I want to practice gratitude. I know that sounds hokey, but instead of concentrating on the negative, I want to look at the positive side of life. After that horrible flu, I’m grateful for my health, and yes, I can even find reasons to be grateful for my mother-in-law. (She must have done something right, considering how Peter turned out.)

I’ve decided to start every journal entry with five things for which I’m thankful. I’m calling it my List of Blessings. That way I can begin my day on a positive note.

I feel the breakfast club has become my own personal support group. Every Thursday at 8—what a treat! And to think that I never would have enrolled in the journal-writing class if not for Georgia. Leave it to my cousin to con me into something I didn’t want to do, because she refused to go alone. Sure enough, I sign up for the class and three weeks later Georgia drops out. But I didn’t feel abandoned since I’d met Liz and Clare and Karen by then and we’d bonded like super glue. I stayed in the class so I could be with them.

It began with the four of us meeting after class. We’d go to the Denny’s restaurant near the college for coffee. Then when the session was over, Liz suggested we continue meeting. She’s the one with all the good ideas. It made sense that we get together at the same time as the original class, but with teenagers at home it’s difficult for me to take one night a week out of my already heavy schedule; doing that was hard enough while the course was in session. Trying to find a mutually agreeable time proved to be the biggest challenge. I suggested we meet for breakfast, and everyone leaped on that. Sometimes the obvious solution isn’t immediately noticeable.

Georgia’s sorry she dropped out of the class. I haven’t invited her to join our breakfast group. Perhaps it’s selfish of me to keep my newfound friends to myself, but I need this. I need them. The things we talk about, the things we share, are not always for Georgia’s ears. She might be my best friend and my cousin, but I wouldn’t want any part of the group’s conversation to be repeated. Georgia, God love her, couldn’t keep a secret if her life depended on it.