Mama-luia

Lent is here, my friends, and I am quite happy about that. Happy, you say? Why, isn't Lent about wandering around tragically, being deprived of all that is good and enjoyable, feeling miserable, and looking dour? No, no, no and no (although I assume you gathered that; that was an obvious straw man of an expression). In case you did think Lent was about these things, let's recall Ash Wednesday's Gospel. "And when you fast, do not look dismal, like the hypocrites, for they disfigure their faces that their fasting may be seen by men. Truly, I say to you, they have received their reward. But when you fast, anoint your head and wash your face, that your fasting may not be seen by men but by your Father who is in secret; and your Father who sees in secret will reward you." Ah yes, being pleasant about our Lenten penances. So back to me being happy about Lent. Here's a secret: I've always liked Lent. No, I don't like penance (I see it's ...

Every 10 days or so, my cousin, who has a baby just a little older than Noah, invites me over to her house. We drink tea, talk about "new mom" stuff and watch our growing babes admire each other. It's always an enjoyable time, and a breath of fresh air when any other moms I am friends with live so far away from me. The only catch is, she lives on the other side of the bridge, and I don't drive. I really should have my license; it's actually ridiculous that I don't. I intend to, soon, but it hasn't happened. So every time I want to go over there, my mom ends up driving me. I'm always embarrassed, humbled and worried I don't express just how grateful I am when she takes me out. Anyway, recently my dear mama was visiting my sister in Ontario. My cousin invited me over, and I had to sheepishly decline, because there was no way I was braving the buses during that bitter snap we were having. My cousin wrote me back asking if I would be willin...

So I showed you my little Christmas tribute to Patrick. But it wouldn't be fair to ignore the beautiful thing he did for me. And really, it was beautiful. For starters, when we first moved in here, we made strides in setting up the kitchen (an essential for my sanity's sake), our living room and our bedroom. Patrick's office became kind of a "dumping ground" for office-related things, and only recently is beginning to take some shape and order. And then there was Noah's room. Since he was sleeping in our room for quite awhile, we just kept putting off decorating it. Or even, tidying it. There were stacks of outgrown clothes everywhere, waiting to be put somewhere, piles of kids books, and basically every generic baby item just sort of existed in this room, all without a clear place to be. On several occasions I cried over this. I would try and get things organized and feel like a failure because I couldn't figure out where to begin. I felt eve...

(If you are looking for some inspiration for mindful mothering, go here or h ere . If you want to bake something show-stopping, go here or here . But since this is my blog, I won't provide you with either. Consider yourself warned: this is a mindless post. If you want to read something mindless, continue on.) I have a rash on my arms. A nasty, burning bright red rash. Every time I try and wash the dishes, the water stings so much I feel like I'm going to weep. I was pointing this out to Patrick -- dare I say, complaining? -- when he said, why not wear rubber gloves? It hadn't occurred to me! ... And yet, something in me revolted at wearing rubber gloves to go about my daily tasks. I hate the sensation of them on my hands, and I know whenever I wear a ring with rubber gloves, they bother me all the more (and now that I am married, the ring doesn't come off... even if I wanted to take it off... chubby having-had-a-baby fingers.... ). But the dishes need to get do...

I have been meaning to show you something since Epiphany.... I have no good reason for putting off posting it, but here it is: In our efforts to make Christmas simpler, Patrick and I decided to make gifts for each other this year. Now, I'm not very crafty, or sew-y, but I can do a little bit of each. Here is my attempt at something for my dear, hardworking (dare I say, overworked ?) husband. He slaves away so Noah and I can play all day (well, that is, stay at home together)! This wall-hanging is now proudly found on our bedroom door. As you can see, it spells the word "love" -- all from repurposed fabric which had interesting purposes to begin with. The letter "l" is from a fabric scrap of one of the first d resses I ever made. I was in grade 5, I was taking sewing lessons, and wearing ankle-length spaghetti strap dresses over ribbed long-sleeve tees was all the rage (what?! I was born to be a homeschooling mother, what with such a uniform!). ...

On Sunday coming home from Mass, both Patrick and I complained, "Oh shoot! We forgot to buy the chalk!" We dashed over to my parents' house, in hopes of finding some, but there was none to be found. Since we don't go shopping on Sundays unless absolutely necessary, we were chalk-less on Sunday. Why, pray tell, would I want chalk? Because Sunday was the feast of the Epiphany (in Canada, at least) , and it's traditionally the day for the blessing of the homes. We heard of this tradition originally through Madonna House, and our very Madonna House-oriented friends. Something just seized me about it's beauty and simplicity. Christmas, despite our best efforts to be as un-commercialized as possible, is still a really noisy busy day. We were very blessed to exchange much simpler gifts with our family -- we were given especially thoughtful homemade gifts from my sister! -- and our day was pared down to only one turkey dinner this year, instead of two (yes...

Saturday was Patrick's birthday. We were blessed to go to Mass in the morning -- and doubly blessed to be able to run into a certain red-haired Sister friend of ours while there -- and then get ready for his birthday party. He took off to the grocery store, and Noah and I began a cake-making flurry of activity. {That baby of mine, he does make lovely company in what seems like whole days in the kitchen.} I am not my sister. She bakes cakes professionally. She makes fondant from scratch and little Disney people from moldable chocolate as cake toppers. She... well... wouldn't have made this. My little Kodak Easy Share doesn't do justice to just how darn ugly this cake was! I don't blame myself entirely; here's what happened. Three days before Birthday: Me: You'll want a cheesecake again this year, right? Husband Dear: No, don't worry about that. A plain white cake would be fine. Me (in sweet wife-y tone): But cheesecake is your favourite ! And I wo...