Today I caught my 10 month old son about 3/4 of the way up the staircase. By himself. With scissors in his hand.

Currently campaigning for Mother of the Year...


He's been barfing all over the place, including on me. I have changed my clothes three times. Between that and the constant faucet nose, we're not doing so well. I finally bottomed out with whatever he's carrying, and it's got us both holed up in our casa. The only good thing about a sick baby is the cuddling. Oh my goodness, I love it. He let me rock him in the rocking chair, nuzzled into my neck. He fell asleep approximately 19 seconds in. I stayed there with him longer than I had to, because I knew the chance to do something like that again would be a long time coming. I wanted to store it up, to remember it the next time he's so hyper and whiny I honestly consider knocking him over.

Currently campaigning for Mother of the Year...

Points.

Tomorrow is the anniversary of my mother's death. 3 years. I can't believe it's gone by already, and I still can't believe that she's really not alive anymore. I look at my life now, and how much has changed, and I know it's all directly or indirectly related to losing her.

My whole world is my son. I am motherhood in everything, and everything revolves around that. Sometimes, when I've finally gotten Josh down for the night and I'm lying in my own bed upstairs, I feel that lonely ache for the time when he was a newborn and wouldn't sleep unless he was in the bed, attached to me. I hated it then. It seemed so inconvenient to sleep in one careful position all night, so as not to roll over onto the baby, or worse, pull the nipple out of his mouth. Now, some nights I have to stop myself from going downstairs and getting him, and bringing him back to the bed to snuggle with me. I know he wouldn't sleep, and he'd probably fall off of the bed and end up with a concussion or something. But I still think about that sweet time when he was my bed buddy, and I miss it.

Today at church, we had one of those amazing services where the presence of Jesus is almost tangible and you know that whatever is happening, unseen, is important and healing and convicting and right. Those times happen sort of irregularly, so you want to pay attention; to stop and soak it in. It may be awhile before you come that close to holiness again. The theme of the service was bearing fruit, and there was lots of focus on how we are the important work of a Master Gardener, and how what our lives produce gives testimony to what we believe and how we behave. We invited several people from the congregation to read poems they had written on this theme, and many of them talked about being watered and pruned and nurtured. One woman, though, wrote about how her life lacked fruit, how she failed again and again to love people without condition, or to overcome the bitterness living in her heart. She cried her way through the poem, and everyone sat silently, listening to the rawness and truth of her words. She gave us all permission to take inventory, for real, not just for the sake of the good vibes or warm fuzzies or other people in the service. I prayed that God would remind us that though we fail, his love never does, and that we don't have to be perfect, but we have to be honest. He can work with honest. And he did.

I love my church. I love the mish mash of poverty and dirt and addiction with the clean and beautiful and appropriate. I love that the worlds bang up against each other, and become richer for what gets smudged and left behind. I know that this is what heaven will be like... all welcomed, regardless of their income or colour or hygiene or dental work. It's good to get a chance to get used to it now.

God bless you and let you know him a little more than you did yesterday.

Where have you been?

Around, I guess. I haven't had much to say because.... well. Eh. Much of my life feels discombomulated, and I don't have a sense of integration between myself and the things going on. I don't know how to feel connected to the things in my world anymore, and it's been that way since I moved into this apartment. It's really affecting my ability to articulate pretty much anything, and I'm finding the struggle even moves into work where writing a simple piece of correspondence leaves me floundering and grasping for an hour or more. So weird. I used to really have a handle on words and expression... and now I just feel kind of impotent.

I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. I have this bad sense of something coming down the pipe, and I have since before I moved into this apartment. For some reason, I don't feel at home here. Beautiful though it is, it feels borrowed, unnecessary, unwelcoming. It doesn't help that we share this place with a grey mouse, and yesterday I saw a cockroach (dear God, not cockroaches PLEASE!!!) but that's not even it. It's just this feeling that I'm not "home". I'm living here, but I don't feel at home here.

In other news, Josh is doing well. He's so big and intelligent and bright. He loves daycare and is really thriving. He's no longer the youngest baby, because they've just accepted a six month old, but he was the first to go and interact with the new kid, which earned him kudos from the teachers on his daily chart. I guess he figures himself the social committee of the infant room, and I'm okay with that. He possesses the hospitality I lack.

Here he is enjoying blueberries with great enthusiasm:


Sorry for the boring update.