Giving Thanks

On my favorite day of the year, I find myself right smack-dab in the middle of my ideal morning--I, knee-deep in flour and spices and yeast and poultry; my two favorite men, snuggled up warmly in our bed; my favorite family members, no doubt having coffee and dressing in preparation to make the one-hour-and-some-odd-minutes drive to my house.

But I realize that after rereading the above (way too long and questionably punctuated) sentence, that I've placed the emphasis on me. And, as I tend to have to remind myself repeatedly, it is not all about me.

Growing up, I was taught to not ask for signs, that God would speak to me in His own time and His own way. So I've not asked for signs. I have, however, asked for guidance. Last Sunday, on our upteenth visit to the same church, I dropped Al off at his Sunday School class so that I could attend "big church" without the almost-2-year-old opportunity for the Devil to distract me from the Word (you think I'm kidding, but I really feel that way sometimes). The problem is that he (the child, not the Devil) usually screams and cries and reaches and pleads, "Mamaaaah" when I drop him off, only to settle down and begin playing exactly 12 seconds (I stand outside the classroom and count) later. Last Sunday, not only did he not cry, but he pulled away from me to get into that room. Finally, he recognized his teachers and his friends and remembered that "Oh yeah, this is where we play with Jesus stickers and eat Fruit Loops! Sweet!"

Then, in church, something incredible happened. For most, it was just a nice little special presented by the choir, but to me, it was a Sign. During a song about believing, a speaker came to the microphone and began reciting words that I haven't spoken in over two years: "

We believe in one God,
the Father, the Almighty,
maker of heaven and earth,
of all that is, seen and unseen..."

I thought I would lose it. Here I was, in a church that in my most Catholic days, I swore I would never attend, because of its decidedly non-liturgical style. A church that has begun to win me over with its mission work and volunteer opportunities and all it has to offer for my son. For once, I was glad that the Mr. hadn't accompanied me and that my sister- and brother-in-law were MIA that morning because I'm not a fan of having people I know watch me cry. But I couldn't help it. I realized that my heart and my beliefs had finally found a home. Finally.

So today, to make the day even more perfect, I'm not giving thanks to the universe or to the people in my life or to the fates or whoever. Today I give thanks to God. For our family, for our health, for our home. For our friends and our work. For you.

But most of all, I thank God for the peace that I feel today, a peace that has been missing for a long, long time.

Happy Thanksgiving, friends.

His Favorite Thing

So, yeah. Toddlerhood. On what other planet can a person awake to furious demands for "Mee-uhl!" and violent protests against clothing, only to spend the very same evening with a dancing, laughing, hugging and kissing little ball of sweetness. I think I need meds just to keep up with the mood swings.

A few weeks ago, we (the Mr. and I) thought we'd pretty much gotten the kid to kick the ol' pacifier habit. At preschool, Al only used it for naptime, and sometimes not even then. At home, he only needed it to go to sleep at night, but not every single night. We were on our way to a paci-less existence. But then, Ear Infection Season officially began, and the poor boy was in quite a state, so I crumbled.

Have you ever tried to quit smoking, and failed? And then, when you started smoking again, you smoked even more than before? No? Oh. Well, pretend you know what I'm talking about, because then you will understand the predicament we're in with this pacifier addiction. If Al had his way, he would be sucking on that precious piece of silicone 24 hours a day.

This morning after an already dreadful morning (damn you, Daylight Savings/Standard Time Change) and a quick family discussion about how the paci situation has grown completely out of control, I plucked the Mam from his mouth. He cried, he stomped, he wailed, and he pleaded for his beloved "pah-ee." And finally he became distracted with a toy tractor and off to preschool we went.

I recounted the morning's events to his teacher, and she promised that she'd work on stretching the paci-free periods longer and longer.

"But you know it kills me when he begs and starts digging in his bag for it," she said.

I do know, I assured her.

In the end, we all did what we could, and everyone survived the day. In Toddlerhood, that's all that really matters.

A boy, his dog, his ragged police car, and his precious, precious Paci.

My Backyard

In an effort to breathe a little more personality, relevance, and, I don't know--life, maybe?--into this site, I've decided to peel away a few layers of anonymity. I'm pretty sure that it won't backfire. I hope I'm right.


I've lived in our town for almost as long as I lived in my hometown. I remember when my own mother said the very same thing about the town where she and my dad raised my brother and me. I was 11, and the thought that those oh-so-important years would some day be only a memory of a mere fraction of my life was unfathomable. Yet, here I am.

I moved here to escape the scary and overwhelming "culture shock" that I experienced during my first year in college. As a freshman, I had insisted on going directly to The University rather than spending a year or two in a smaller junior college closer to home. My mom, my brother, and my stepdad loaded all of my most precious belongings into my mom's Oldsmobile and helped me move six hours away into a dorm that housed more inhabitants than my hometown did. After a year of trying to adjust, I decided to collect as many semester hours as possible so that I could transfer to an upper-level 2-year campus closer to home. Here, the average student age was 30. I was 19. There were only a handful of us "traditional" students, and we tended to stick together. We had our share of parties, late night card games with beer and pizza, and weekend road trips. But even still, I've always felt like I missed out on the "college experience."

Today, that little 6-building, 2-year campus is a growing 4-year university with a multitude of degree options, including a doctoral program. Men's and women's basketball, baseball, softball, tennis, golf, volleyball, track and field, and soccer teams compete in the NCAA and the ASC. The fine arts complex hosts a Distinguished Lecture Series and a Performing Arts Series and a Broadways Series. There are sororities and fraternities. It has become a real university.

Our home is located only a few blocks from the university. From our back porch, we can hear the carillon announce each quarter-hour. Every Saturday morning, my jogging route includes a stretch of road that ambles beside the campus border. Alex's favorite outing during the spring and summer months is to feed the ducks that live on the lakes between the library and the University Center, and we often ride our bicycles along the cross-country trails, stopping to watch the baseball and softball teams practice in the evenings.

In a way, I feel like I've managed to recapture a little bit of the university experience that I felt lacking in my younger years.

It's even better without midterms.