Mama-luia

I had a hard start to my week. I was feeling sad and discouraged. Nothing serious, but just kind of blue. And tired. Oh so tired. On Thursday morning, my otherwise incredibly cheerful son threw a temper tantrum at breakfast. He hadn't gone to sleep until pushing 9:00 the night before, and woke up just after 6:30 that morning. More teeth were being cut, less interest in being, well, himself. I didn't know what to do. So I went outside with him. We walked and walked and walked, which is an odd thing for us because our neighbourhood is actually sort of ugly. It's rather industrial looking, with the sights and sounds being the bridge overhead, a U-Haul drop-off across the street, and a few car dealerships. Oh yes, and a short drive from a prison. {In case you're wondering, we chose to live here. The rent's good. And our actual block is lovely.} We managed to find some grassy areas to walk around in, and I had some "mama thinking time" while he stared at dand...

"Five hundred twenty-five thousand Six hundred minutes, Five hundred twenty-five thousand moments so dear." I recall. . . that cry. The first cry of my son. that moment of complete stillness when I first saw him. Complete love coming over me, and yet disbelief; how could I have borne a being so beautiful, so perfect? Simultaneously feeling in awe, feeling overwhelmed, and feeling "connected" to every other mother in a new and sacred way up late at night, nursing, nursing, nursing up late at night, just gazing, gazing, gazing seeing my husband change instantly into a father, and a wonderful one at that his tiny baby clothes. How I love each outfit so much still that beautiful coo as he watched the ceiling fan turn round and round how he would wriggle so happily when I would sing to him watching him fall asleep at my breast being in awe of his tiny hands and tiny toes being told over and over "enjoy these moments, they grow up so fast"....

I can't believe we're in the Easter season already. It has been an amazing Easter for our family, as it was Noah's first out of the womb (mind you he was born during the Octave last year). We began Holy Week with a lovely potluck with a group of families on Palm Sunday after a beautiful Mass that morning**. We get together every month to say a Rosary, share a meal and have fellowship (by the way, I detest "fellowship" as a verb. Ugh). It was wonderful for Noah to see all these children -- some 25, I think -- all happily playing and praying. He loves studying other kids. Holy Week continued as an holy, ordinary week in our lives -- Lifesite-writing, dish-washing, diaper-changing, meal-eating. Yet we knew something powerful was happening. Holy Thursday was wonderful. It started off awkwardly as we left in plenty of time to go to Mass at our parish, only to find out the time in the bulletin was wrong! We were there at 7:20 for at 8pm Mass, and it turns out, M...

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...