Choo Choo

This picture was taken on the morning of a day that changed my life. I knew it would. I mean, how could it not? Look how well my hair was behaving. But, seriously. I felt a great charge on this morning to perform well. Decision makers would be watching me. I felt nervous, sooo nurrrrrrvous, and frankly, I was paranoid the whole day that I would milkbomb myself. But I also had faith. Prior to this morning, the hand of God was already in motion...leading...guiding...placing a burden on my heart.... I cannot wait to tell you all about it.

Summer Reading

I think I am the only girl in the history of high school that took seriously the summer reading.  And by that I mean that I not only was STRESSIN' that I hadn't completed a novel (probably some pastoral romance like Julie because you know those nuns would have been finding The Thornbirds wayyy tooooo racy) by the 4th of July, but I was taking copious notes, chewing my pen as I considered whether Mr. Darcy was really a protagonist or villain, and slapping those post-it notes between chapter pages -- Again. Reason 32934802582 why I got my first kiss at the painfully late of 17.  And I kid!

I was 18!

When late August came and we pleated skirt-rocking bun-haired lasses found ourselves stuffing books into a different locker in some hall that totally felt promoted from the dank corner of the unlit hall we were formerly occupying in locker land, there was much buzz about how little of the summer reading everyone had done.

Girls are good at this, aren't they?  "Ohmygawsh, I am going to fail this!  I didn't study at all!"  This means, "I will probably nail this."

Why do women do this? Fake like everything is very hard, fake like we are very fat, fake like we are broke, when none of those things we know to be true.

Anyway. Summer reading. I remember it, and I remember what a chore it was. What was the best assigned book you read once upon a summer? I think Dead Man Walking by Sr Helen Prejean was one of my favorites. Definitely gave me a new set of lenses for the death penalty.

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My girl lovin' her some story hour at the BPL with her mate....

Our good pals Maddy, Claire and their mama school our Madi in Berensteins....

BFFs

I don't think we should be proud when we work a lot of hours. Not that a good work ethic isn't a point of pride, but I think we should be grateful for our opportunities, and take them as blessings from God. Oh, but now I do so love to complain. And I have, often, about the hamster wheel work-a-day schedule my husband has maintained for the last couple of years while I was finishing grad school. I found myself rattling off his m.o. like a radio announcer, "Three jobs! 70 hours! Often overnight! With crazy people!" I was always proud of him and the way he never complained, working so many hours with such a difficult population. But it was always clear to me how tempting it was to become self-satisfied with this life. As if there was some award at the end of the year for Most Nights a Therapist Has Been Paged In a Row. Oooh, I hope it's a cookie. That would make it all worth it.

This school year, I'm no longer a student, and Lovey Loverpants will no longer be working an insane number of hours with the insane (excluding the hours he has to coexist with me). He'll take a day off each week to spend with Baby Girl while I am prepping my lesson plans and grading papers. Once again, it's so easy to become prideful of this, to congratulate Loverpants for making such a sacrifice, for being such an honorable dad. But you know what? Daddy and Madi Day is a blessing. It's given to us in grace. I'm so thrilled for my family, so excited for more daddy/daughter facetime, and taking it all as a gift and not a given.

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They're together so much, they've started to dress alike.

Cooking Class

::MELTS::