Mama-luia

I am really overwhelmed by the encouragement I have received in blogging since that fateful post. I know it sounded like I was fishing for compliments, but in reality, I simply wanted to find out why other women (presumably women; I think my only male reader is my own husband!) blog. I was particularly inspired by a friend of mine who wrote to me on Facebook concerning this: " I just wanted to tell you that you should keep writing. Not only do I love reading your very talented writings on life, but I think that this talent should be cultivated and shared w i th the world no matter how small a piece of the world it is that sees it." Perhaps only a very small number of people read this, and perhaps even a much smaller number still comment, but what I get to do is share something of my life as I blog. Maybe what I write will make you smile, make you think, inspire you a little, or even annoy you. But maybe the point is that I wrote something . {It is all about me, of ...

Today I was sitting in my husband's office, surreptitiously sewing a little something for him to commemorate our second anniversary, which is tomorrow. You know, the cotton anniversary. A little sewed something seems natural, no? As I listened to this song, I happily stitched away in the few moments of quiet available while Noah napped. The quiet made me introspective, and I was struck by the sight of my own hand as I sewed. Specifically, my wedding ring. I was struck how my wedding ring and engagement ring are such wonderful symbols of our life together. There is the obvious symbolism of the rings being forged into an unending circle, made from solid, precious metal.But the story behind these specific rings say something about us. Patrick couldn't afford an engagement ring when he proposed. Neither of us could stand for a blood diamond as a symbol of our love and commitment to one another. Yet a Canadian diamond was simply out of his budget from a 'Franciscan' sal...

I am really struggling with this business of blogging. I have yet to find my 'voice' as a blogger so I never know what to write about when I sit down at the computer, but more importantly, I don't know how to word it. Who is blogger Jenna? Is she someone who writes about her cooking, crafting and other domestic triumphs? Or does she get more raw and discuss where she is going wrong in these areas? How much information about my family is relevant? Interesting? What ought I write about? Also, I find myself questioning my whole pursuit as a blogger, because honestly, I'm discouraged by the lack of comments. I think, if I wanted this to be only about me and for me, I'd keep a journal. And I wonder if writing about my life in an attempt to reflect on it's simple joys should be public. So I am asking you today, why do you blog? And, if you have a reason, why should I ?

We seem to have lost our camera. Our trusty Kodak Easy Share. The one we had to exchange twice because the first two were duds. The one I was going to exchange on my way home from my midwife appointment, but got sidetracked by having a baby instead. Oh, that camera. It actually doesn't take very good photos, and yet I miss it. It has followed Noah through his first year of life. And right now, I would love to have it to make a video of him walking to share with you all. Yet the camera vanished during a most lovely occasion (so I can't begrudge it entirely): our three-week trip to Ontario! We Marched for Life, prayed before Our Lady of Combermere, ate my sister's ridiculously good baking, celebrated my nephew's birthday, saw friends, a new calf and chicks, got scorched in the hot hot Toronto sun, connected (and re-connected) with Catholic families we admire, and enjoyed the company of people we love and miss. I loved every minute of it. Yet it is so good to be home....

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...