I love birth stories. They are filled with such power and wonder, tenderness and strength.
So during the month of August, I will be sharing the birth stories of my other children (here is baby number 4’s ). Be forewarned, they are not necessarily in order (just to keep it interesting….and slightly confusing…)
I was 41 weeks and 4 days pregnant.
Continue reading “A Tale of Birth #3”
“Nobody tells you about this part.”
“Which part?” Christine asked, pushing aside a stray lock. The late afternoon sunlight struck her dark hair boldly, warming the hue and igniting the streaks of silver that sparkled here and there.
Kay glanced at her from underneath a wide brimmed hat. “The firsts in life” she said with a soft smile.
Christine’s brow puckered with confusion. “What on earth are you talking about?”
Snapping a few more beans from their stalks, Kay tossed them casually into the pail at her feet.
“You know, we’ve seen weddings and births, babies walking and talking for the first time. But that’s not exactly what I mean.”
A few more beans hit the bucket. “We were never warned about how to handle watching our parents’ lives.”
Continue reading “Hidden Among the Thorns”
Eucharisteo: to be grateful, to feel thankful, to give thanks
I don’t know about you, but most days, I don’t feel all that thankful. Sometimes I simply don’t want to feel thankful.
So I write them down.
And count them one by one.
Continue reading “Eucharisteo: The Art of Thankfulness #251-275”
The change is subtle, yet always shocking.
One moment, he’s a baby, crawling and squawking for milk. A perfect picture of dependence. It was only a few days ago that I gave birth to him, right?
Then one unexpected day, a step is taken. A precarious, hesitant, definitive step. And from that moment on, the little back seems straighter, stout legs grow firmer. The curtain falls on the infant, and rises to reveal the little boy in the next scene. Continue reading “Act 1, Scene 2”
My four year old spilled milk on the floor….for the third time today.
And if you even think about spouting the phrase “Don’t cry over spilled milk”, I swear I will go full southern mama on you! (it’s the only time I say “ya’ll”)
Because, come on, really the only person who deserves the right to cry over spilled milk is the mom of small children (or maybe a milk maid who carried several gallons’ worth up hill…. in three feet of snow… at night…) Continue reading “I Want A Perfect Life (and other lies I tell myself as I hide in the bathroom from my kids…)”