It's Most Uncanny...

The way that God gives us just what we need, right when we need it... if we're willing to take it. When I was waking up at night, fearing the devil, what is in my scriptural reading for the next morning? Luke 4:37-44. Jesus heals a possessed boy. "'O unbelieving and perverse generation, how long shall I be with you and put up with you?"... But Jesus rebuked the unclean spirit and healed the boy, and restored him to his father. And all were astounded at the majesty of God."

Wow. Ok, good reminder.

And again today, after I've been having trouble keeping up with my daily prayers: "...The Lord loveth a cheerful giver; and it is far better to give Him one minute cheerfully than ten minutes under duress."(M. Eugene Boylan, O. Cist. R., This Tremendous Lover)

Spell it out for me, God. Spell it out.

Happy birthday to my hilarious, sweet, rappin' nephew, Joseph. Four makes a big boy. I love you.

No More Mister Lame Guy... Girl

Dear Fagin,

Whoa.

Whoa.

It's been almost two months. Our reading public must be in despair! Abandoned and alone. Confused and constipated.

Or oblivious.

Because we have no public. The public deserves better than us. S'part of why I haven't written in so long... I just didn't have nothin' good to say. First there was that weird funk. And then those three or four weeks of 90 degree weather when I never went outside or opened my curtains and sat huddled in my sweaty house in the dark thinking bad thoughts. It was a serious case of SAD (that's Seasonal Affective Disorder... I think), which is weird because I thought that could only happen in the Winter.

And then! And then September came and with it the wind that blew the stink and the SAD away. We've had the most gorgeous series of sparkling cool days I can remember. My windows are open. Almost all the time. We go to the park and the zoo again. I see sky. And it is good! More than the change in the weather, though, it's the change of heart. God is changing it. He's been trying for ages and I just wasn't letting him. I'm trying to let him now, and dang! but He is good. Seriously, I was waaaaay underestimating the Guy. So here are a few of my resolutions.

Today I will give glory to God.

Today I will not think of myself. All. The. Time. Ok, I won't after I'm done with this post. Dang.

Today I will talk to my son. I will take him outside to play. I will tell him how much I love him.

Today I will say thank you. Thank you thank you thank you!

I will not make mystery slop for dinner.

I will be patient.

I will smile. And maybe laugh. And definitely sing.

Today my husband will know that I appreciate him. Because I'll tell him. And show him.

I will go to mass (missed it this morning... sometimes a girl's got to shave her legs).

I will not mope, or feel sorry for myself (why is that one especially hard?).

I will clean my house. With a joyful spirit.

I will be reminded over and over that I could do none of this by myself. That none of the credit is mine. That this is all a gift. All of it.

Today I will say thank you (sincerely!) for my small crosses. Especially for the gift of infertility. I never thought I would be able to do that. But with Him all things are possible.

Today is the day the Lord has made. I will rejoice and be GLAD!

Slap-happily yours,

Hook

Hook,

I don't know where I've been. In Stupid Land? Too stupid to write anything here, even stupid things. How many times can I say 'stupid'? Feels liberating to write it because I live with small people who are always ready to tell me "Don't say 'stupid', Mom!" As if I've really trained them so well. Wasn't it one of my darlings who only yesterday removed his diaper unnoticed and did...something in the dining room?

I don't need to have a dog in order to have poop on the floor. I love how I can streamline my life. Forget ridding my over-crowded house of unused, unnecessary, not to mention ugly books, furniture, toys and hoo-hah. I've got a recently and rabidly un-housetrained two year old instead: the perfect excuse to give the six year old who really really wants a puppy.

Would you rather I write about a recipe I'm dying to try? How about a whole category of food instead. Make that two: fruit pies and margaritas. Sour margaritas and any kind of fruit pie made with smitten kitchen's painfully beautiful and painfully buttery pie crust. The smell of that crust haunts my dreams. And I wish a tart margarita would haunt my days.

And when are you going to make me fried chicken, hmm? I'd make biscuits and slaw and strawberry pie and dress all in gingham. I know, you're at the lake going fishin' and eating bizarres with Bert. I can wait for fried chicken until you return, but not much longer.

Fagin

Stultiloquence

Dear Fagin,

Where are you? I mean, I know where you are. I just saw you yesterday. But still, where are you? I'll remind you that this whole blog thing was your idea... I think. And here I am vomiting my brain twaddle all over it with nary a word from you.

C'mon, you've got thoughts. And feelings. I know you do. Like how about Reading Lessons, or Terrible Twos, or The Color Pink? How does it make you feel when I bring my kid over to whine at you and eat all your food? How does it feel when I bring myself over to whine at you and eat all your food? What's an average day at your house like? What's the recipe you're most dying to try at the moment?

How crusty are your feet?

No?

That's just me? Alright then.

Don't write if you don't wanna. I'm mostly just pissy because I'm bored and there's nothing to read (besides the dozen books I checked out of the library). And I need to pee wicked bad but the bathroom's all the way upstairs. Yoho.

This is one of those Summer days. You know the sort. Hot. Boring. Mehhhhhhh. I finished reading "Julie and Julia" yesterday, and hated it. You told me I would. What a miserable read. What an unappealing person! Sorry if that offends you Readers. But I know it doesn't because we don't have any Readers.

Ha. This is exactly the sort of random driveling I didn't want to write. Next time I will write about World Peace or Religion or Something Important. Mmmmmkay.

Bert Snert was in the dirt.

His lunch was smeared all over his shirt.

He bedaubed his neck

With feculent dreck.

Pert curt hurt blurt skirt.

I'm sorry,

Hook

Surprised By Joy

Dear Fagin,

It occurred to me yesterday, not for the first time, that I am settling. I know, I know, "settling" has a bad connotation these days. It's giving up on your dreams, taking less than you deserve, copping out. The mortal sins of the Society of Me. After all, I opted out of grad school in favor of marrying The Man, starting a family and - gasp! - staying home. I settled for an older car, a less glamorous job, and three dollar Target clearance tees.

Ok, so I didn't really settle. I married a man I profoundly respect and love. I'm blessed with a child whose worth is infinitely beyond my deserving. Even when he's being a toot. I have comfort, security, and people in my life. I didn't settle at all, if you want to push the issue. And I'm happy.

I. Am. Happy.

That may sound trite, but lately those words have been walloping me over the head. Over and over. I am settling and I am happy. Or maybe settling in is a better way to put it. I'm finally starting to feel like I've caught up with myself! Like I'm not measuring my life in phases. Or something.

Do you know what I mean? Is this something everyone feels at one point or another? Did God blast me with Celestial Joy just for the heck of it? Is this a routine part of growing up, or am I simply slow to arrive?

Hello? Ummm, you there?

Do enlighten, dear Older and Wiser Sister. Although, I guess if you don't know either it's not the end of the world. Because I'm totally diggin' this settling thing.

Yours In a Great Stupor of Obviousness,

Hook

Ah You Makin' Chickin?

Dear Fagin,

Don't you just love the ease of Summer? Don't you just love how Summer is the only thing I can talk about lately? Duuuuuuuude, I just can't help myself! There's nothing like having a long day getting a lot done and at the end of it thinking, "Saints alive, it's 7:00! Whatever shall I serve for supper?"

Or just, "Oh crud, whadderwegonnaeat?"

Here's where it gets beautiful, though. The Man flips on his gas grill, and in five minutes we've got chicken and asparagus sizzling while I whip up my most favoritest Caesar salad. Then we carry it all out to the back of the yard and pinch ourselves because it's all just too... heavenly. (There'll be food in Heaven, right? I mean, there's gotta be.)

Do I sounds braggy? Don't worry, it's not like this most nights. Last night we had frozen pizza with a side of bat poop. But the wonderful thing about Summer is that sometimes, often when you're least expecting it, those perfect moments and magazine meals do happen.

And the livin' is easy.

Hook

That Certain Something

What is is about little boys and their dads?

Bert loves his Dad. To him, The Man is... THE MAN. The other day Bert told me, quite seriously, "My Dad is a super hero."

"Oh really?"

"Yeah. He said so."

I know what he means.

At dinner I can't get a word in. Bert just wants to talk to his Dad. He has "so many questions to tell him". He'll make up endless stories just to keep his dad's attention.

Sometimes we argue over who loves The Man. "No no, Mom. You don't love Dad. You love me and I love you, and I love Dad myself."

And I love that.