I did something unforgivable today. Simply horrible. It undoubtably sits at the top of every mother’s “do not do this EVER” list. I left my baby in the car. Pause for reeling, gasping and hyperventilating. Let me clarify- the car was running, the air conditioning was on, and a window was cracked low enough for me to reach in if need be. But do you want to know the awful, dirty, disturbing truth? I do this quite regularly. Allow me to defend myself, although I’m quite certain any mother reading this has written me off entirely and is currently running through her home screaming “call CPS! Call CPS!”. And if I lived in a sprawling metropolois, or anywhere in the continental United States for that matter, I might bow gently and move aside so that you may do just that. But, I live in Hawaii, and the rules are different here. Now is the point in the narrative where you get to cross your arms, narrow your eyes and mutter “braggart” or some such less nerdy insult that implies I am trying to make you feel jealousy that I live in “Paradise”. I am acutely aware of the fact that I live in a place where Charles Schwab and Paul Allen have “beach houses”. That people save their hard earned money all year just to spend their one single precious vacation in a place I call home. And, as my husband & I are both directly employed by the tourism industry, I am grateful they do. But, speaking from the perspective of a mother (obviously), the benefits of living in Hawaii and raising children go far beyond the beach on the weekend and the absence of the necessity of winter clothes. It means peace of mind. We live in a very safe place. Thankfully, our little town newspaper isn’t littered with stories of missing children, homicide or mass shootings. It is a place where every time I leave the house, I run into at least ten people I know. A place where seemingly everyone knows the names of my children, who my senior prom date was, and asks after my mother. A place where when we are at a community function or birthday party, my children can roam around safely, and the proverbial village will look after them and even, when necessary, correct their behavior without asking my permission or judging me. People here smile. They wave you through intersections. When you have your 3 month old daughter strapped to your chest like Master Blaster, they help you heft your case of organic rice milk onto your shopping cart at Costco, and then someone else helps you load it into your car out in the parking lot. There is an authentic sense of community and a warmth that is tangible. These aren’t things that occurred to me as important when lying in bed with my husband, discussing raising a family what seems like eons ago. But now, having seen the product of living in this place manifest itself as two respectful, considerate, outgoing little boys, I see how fortunate I am. And for this, on this Thanksgiving weekend, I am thankful.