Said to Me...

Michael: "Mommy, I love you."

Me: "Michael, I love you, too."

Michael: "I love you because you look like a big ball."

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Michael: "Mommy, if it was raining chicken nuggets, would you let me go outside?"

Me: (silence. I am still thinking that one over.)

More Interesting Quotes...

"You don't have to pursue that which you can attract."

"When your life is in order, peace follows naturally."

~Rev. A.R. Bernard.

It's Sticking With Me

From a talk that Grant and I attended on Friday night,

"The greatest act of holiness you can perform as a parent is when your child asks for your attention, you put aside whatever it is that you are doing and give that child your attention."

Read This

http://blog.cjanerun.com/2009/09/first-babies.html

I've not read another post that captures the dreariness that sometimes accompanies the vocation of motherhood quite like it. Read it. Then read it again.

Farewell Old Face... Hope to see you soon.

(Photo by Michael K. Steele)

Pregnancy has a way of mangling my face. And sure enough, the inevitable has begun again. So, I am pretty sure that I am going to put the kibosh on all photos (of me, anyway) until I can be photographed holding my sweet baby daughter.

Primitive Torture Devices

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Author's Note:
Welcome.  You have Googled "Primitive Torture" and I want to know WHY??  I wrote this silly little post a long time ago and it generates SO MUCH traffic to this blog that I am baffled.  Leave me a note.  Why, oh why are you researching "Primitive Torture."  It seems so scary to me.
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It is no secret that I have been feeling more than a little frumpy lately. Have I told you about my last doctor's appointment? Well, suffice it to say, I have gained more than my fair share of weight for this pregnancy and I still have about 3 months to go. I need a haircut, my nose is expanding, and my pants only fit when I wear them backwards.... don't ask.

So today, when I was trying to gussy myself up, I decided to go through my grandma's old jewelry to see if there was anything in there that might improve my visual status. In my collection of her treasures, I found a great pair of old emerald (looking) clip-on earrings. They were straight out of the 70's and they looked like just what I needed. Green is my happy color, by the way. I clipped those babies on and set off to tackle the day.

About an hour after I left, I felt the ache start to kick in. The clip-ons were starting to really pinch my ears. I didn't care. They looked great and I'd already received a compliment on them. I tried to ignore the pain. I found myself getting unnecessarily impatient with the kids. I looked down at one point and realized that I was going, like, 20 miles-per-hour over the speed limit. The pain had become too much. I pulled off the offending earrings and felt my happiness start to return. Those suckers hurt - and they were ruining my day!

And I started to think about all of the things that we (women) do in the name of fashion that are wildly uncomfortable, if not downright torture. Clip-on earrings aside, anyone remember nylons? Those sweaty, sticky, constricting pieces of synthetic fabric that I used to wear everywhere. They held in the lumps, they smoothed the bumps, and they left me hot and sweating like I was in my own personal hell. What about stilettos? I could go on and on. Eyebrow tweezing... bikini waxing... low riser jeans... thong underwear!!! Why?! Why!

And yet, complete comfort looks slovenly. I have no real desire for total comfort - I just want to preemptively reject any future fashion statement that has me barking at my children. And for now, I will stick to my grandma's circa-1980's bead necklaces. They are a lot more friendly.

Confessions of a Slob

Isn't it funny how something so seemingly insignificant can trigger a memory so profound?


Here's some background. Never in my wildest imagination would I have ever thought that I would be a stay-at-home mother. I had so many preconceived notions of stay-at-home mothers. They were dowdy. They were boring. All they thought about were children and housekeeping. This wasn't for me, no way. I was going to have a life. I was going to be interesting. I wasn't good at housekeeping and I didn't want to be - I was better than that.

Fast forward to our first year of marriage, I commuted and worked and baked a baby. And once our sweet son arrived and it came time to make the decision to return to work or not - I reluctantly decided to stay at home with this little stranger - but I had no plan, no goals, and no vision. Exhaustion had clouded my view so profoundly that it guided all of my decisions. Basically, I was too tired to return to work, so I didn't.


And I became that person I feared most - uninspired, boring, and exhausted. I learned to embrace motherhood, but I did not embrace the care of the household. The mess was a source of comfort. It meant that I didn't have to housekeep. It meant that I still had a hold on my precious individuality.


Luckily, my identity crisis didn't last long. The Catholic Church crept quietly into my life and started to permeate all of the cracks that had appeared in my life. Soon, I was transfixed, transported and uplifted by all of the new ideas that were offered by our catechism classes. The fog started to roll back and I found myself awake for the first time in months. And I will never forget the day that a friend explained to me the idea that motherhood and married life are a vocation unto themelves. That they should be pursued with the same vigor as any education or career path.


Holy.Crap.
I had some major work to do.

So with the help of prayer and faith and good friends and family, I have made our marriage, these children, and the care of this house my personal mission. And ironically, I feel liberated. I feel like I am home. And I think I have done a fairly good job. There are lots of things I think I do quite well, including keeping the house neat and pretty and (mostly) clean.


This brings me back to Grant. A few days ago, he stumbled upon a small corner of our bedroom that goes hidden for the most part. It is a small parcel of our home where I throw my crap: damp towels, worn pajamas, not-quite-dirty clothes. I go through it periodically, but there is always a pile there. And Grant says to me, "When are you going to clean up this pile here?" And I said, "You leave my pile alone. It is mine. I need my pile."


He looked at me with true confusion, "Why do you still need that pile?"

Why indeed? I can clean it up - I just don't want to. Is it some remnant of my life as a slob? Does it represent some sort of silent rebellion that I haven't acknowledged?

I don't know. But I keep hearing the words, "Why do you still need that pile?" And now, I too, am wondering why.