The things that kids do and say...

Come on parents, you all know what I'm talking about. Faster than you can whisk your shopping cart out of the cereal aisle as your child loudly asks: "why is that lady so fat?" you shudder in horror at the memory of certain things that your flesh and blood has said or done that have left you begging God to please never let them speak in public again.

I had one of those moments. And after the incident at Mass a few weeks ago, I really think I should have a month-long pass from kid-related embarrassments. But life doesn't work that way.

So, yesterday I had a really painful dropoff with Henry at preschool. I went to leave, and he burst into tears and clung to my leg. This is very, very unusual, so of course it concerned me. His teacher commented that it might be related to something that happened Friday in which he was put into "time out." Henry is a very, very good boy at school and always receives glowing reports, so a time out is also pretty unheard of. She went on to mention what he did, but because three was some drama brewing over in the painting corner I couldn't hear her. What I did notice is that she said it very casually and sort of laughed; my impression was that whatever Henry did wasn't that big of a deal, but they wanted to discourage him from doing it again, so hence the time out. Which is fine, I trust their judgment. If Henry was placed in time out, I'm sure it was deserved.

Well, I had to wrench myself away, and that was pretty unpleasant for both Henry and me. I felt terrible having to leave him there crying, but what could I do? I knew it made it worse for me to linger, so I kissed him and reassured him and told him about some fun evening plans we had and left.

Later that evening, I asked Henry about the time out in question. At first he denied that any such event actually transpired. As I was getting his jammies on, the truth came out:

"Mommy. I got put in time out because I showed my penis to the other kids."

*moment of absolute mortification* Is it possible to actually die from embarassment? I'm thinking yes.

Now, Henry is barely 4 years old, and at this age the whole nudity/body thing is totally, totally innocent still. And the look on his face reinforced this. His little eyebrows were knit, and you could tell that the thought bubble over his head said "I know I shouldn' t have done it, because I got put in time out, but I just don't understand why this was such a problem."

So, I had to sit him down and explain that while there is nothing bad or wrong with any part of his body, there are certain parts of your body that are *private.* And for those private parts, you shouldn't show them or talk about them to anybody except for mommy, daddy and the doctor. Or anybody helping him use the potty, like his teacher.

I don't know if he totally understood, but I did the best I could, and please God don't let him do it again.

By this morning, he seemed to have worked it out, because he was fine at school dropoff, and that's the result I wanted. Henry tends to be like me in his personality - a little introverted with an extra sensitive side - and I want him to be able to gain confidence in his relationships and ability to deal with things on his own. Certainly, there are going to be many things that arise in his life that will require parental intervention; but to the extent that little awkward things come up, I want him to feel that he can come to us, certainly, but that he can deal with the repurcussions on his own and find his way back to a comfortable routine. I lacked that as a child, and still struggle with it as an adult. I don't want Hank to feel like he needs me to swoop in all the time - he does a good job of making and getting along with friends at school, and he doesn't need me there in order to do that. I feel better, and I'm glad he does too.

So, this all got me to thinking...our children enhance our lives and make us holy. But, what are those (little) things that we took for granted before we were parents and look back on now with unmitigated longing?

1.) Lack of social embarrassment that is utterly outside of our control. "Mommy, THERE ARE SKID MARKS IN MY UNDERWEAR!" True story. Nothing else on the list even comes close to this. But a definite second is,

2.) Going anyplace in remote resemblance to a hurry. "Gee sweetheart, it's so great that you (took 10 minutes to) zip your coat yourself (when we should have left 15 minutes ago, but you threw a fit about missing the end of Tom & Jerry, and then announced you had to go potty, and then insisted that you had to pick out a different pair of socks).

3.) Having anything out on your living room tables that isn't nailed down.

4.) Being able to use the bathroom without someone bursting in, unannounced.

5.) Being able to transverse the house without stepping on an action figure.

Anybody else have items to place on the list? :)

Weekend assortment...

This week is starting off a bit tiresomely (is that a word?) at work. I do what I can. We're working on a large scholarly communication/open access publishing initiative, and if I can be frank, it's a bit of a drag. We're all just so busy right now, and the middle of the fall semester isn't a good time for overarching, giant projects. I was so flustered when I left Friday that I forgot about some food that I left in the office refrigerator and left it behind. And the food in question was from my dad, who I saw before work as I dropped off some stuff for my parents to take to my sister (the poor, house-burned-down one) since they were driving to see her over the weekend. And given that it's from my dad, it's a bit...different :) My dad is of Native American descent, and has always valued good old fashioned hunting for food (not for sport). So, there is still elk sausage residing in the office refrigerator. Oh well.

Friday evening I had the brightener of my new bellydance class to look forward to, and I geared myself up for the new challenges in the tougher class. I'm no bellydance superstar in the making, but I hold my own in there. The new choreography for performance group involves me using a fan veil, and so far it and I have a decided love/hate relationship going on. What this thing is is a fan with a silk veil attached to it. For one thing, I'm not very coordinated, and I'm finding it hard to keep the fan open while (a) waving it around, and (b) dancing. I'm getting hand cramps, and with each cramp I resent the fan more. And the veil...I'm used to chiffon veils, and the silk is a whole 'nother animal. You flick a chiffon veil, and it comes immediately back down. You flick a silk veil...and it comes down whenever the heck it feels like it. It's like doing a duet; you don't have any control over what the other person does. So, my silk veil has been busily pooling at my feet and getting stuck in my legs and causing me to trip. It also coils up unexpectedly and looks all clumpy coming off of a dramatic sweep. Lovely. But we're getting there.

So, after that, Henry and I had the weekend to ourselves, since Mike was out of town attending a football game with his dad and uncle. Playground playing, Transformers racetrack racing and Scooby Doo episodes abounded. After I got Henry to sleep Saturday evening, I settled in for some serious girl time. I so rarely get the tv to myself that when I do I really, really seek out movies and programs with a high chick-flick factor. First, I watched a bellydance performance DVD. Then I popped in my favorite chick movie of all time: Center Stage. A ballet dance movie - Mike shudders in revulsion at the thought. It was so, so wonderful. I sipped wine, watched my movie, and sighed in bliss. I don't want every weekend to be like that, certainly, but every once in a while rejuvenaging alone time is needed and soothing.

Tough week...

So, I think we can officially say that this is "one of those weeks." It's been tough. The main thing, of course, being our worry for my sister and her family with the fire that they had at their house. My brother-in-law, Ken, wrote up an account of how the fire started, and even though the issue is far, far from funny, his sense of humor came through and it made me laugh despite the gravity of the situation.

The fire started from embers in their outdoor grill; apparently, some leaves blew over and caught on the embers, and then the wind blew them up onto their wood shingled house. It was just a weird perfect storm of events. So, the side of their house is on fire, and they have absolutely no idea until their son's smoke detector goes off in his bedroom, ground zero for where the leaves blew. They all immediately got out of the house, thank God, and Ken's description of his one man struggle with their beleaguered, leaky, garden hose while they awaited the fire department just really made me giggle despite the horror.

They're all doing pretty well though, all things considered. The insurance company has already begun the process of inventorying and clean-up, and they have some preliminary plans for how the house will be fixed up, so that's all good.

So, then, yesterday, I was eating lunch and happened to travel over to one of the message boards I participate in. I hadn't been there in at least a month; I've been spending more time blogging during my breaks, and just hadn't had a chance. Well. Come to find out, something happened that I always knew would happen, and wondered how that play out in the new online world we all live in. That is, one of the frequent posters on that board passed away. It was shocking and upsetting. The only reason we all found out what happened was through a few board members who knew her in real life.

And it's all so odd, because I don't know any of these women in the true sense of the term. But, in a completely different, and still meaningful way, I do know these women. People share their lives there, and given that it's an online community devoted to Natural Family Planning, we discuss some pretty personal stuff. It was very jarring to learn that this woman had died and that she just won't be posting there anymore. Sad, sad stuff. She was only 54 years old.

Sigh. So, hard to get uplifting on that note, but we do what we have to do.

I did finish another hat. The other hat...it just wasn't doin' it for me. It looked like the hat was squeezing all the blood out of my brain. It was just too small. I actually had a hard time hearing while wearing the hat. That just sounds dangerous. We'll call hat #1 "The Blood Sucker."

So, I started another one, with the same yarn, and immediately noticed something. Once again, I was creating something afflicted with gigantism. What is wrong with me? Well, actually I can answer that question. I don't check my gauge, and when I only made afghans and scarfs it really didn't matter. Now that I'm moving on to clothing items, I need to change my anti-gauge attitude. I don't care if my afghan is bigger than the one in the pattern, but I do care if it looks like I have a freakishly gigantic head. So, I pulled it out, used a smaller hook, and all seemed to go better. Here are the results, taken in my office minutes ago:

I'm pretty happy with it, actually. The alleged "no dye lot" yarn is clearly different where I changed skeins *glare in Red Heart's general direction* but in the natural light it's not bad. So, it's not a perfect hat, but it's a darn cute hat, and that's all I'm going for. We'll call hat #2 "The Green Wonder."

I'm now embarking on a shawl for my friend Irena, and then I need to get cookin' on a hat and scarf for my husband. He's starting to clamor for his stuff, and the weather is getting colder.

I know I was going to blog about something else, but I can't remember, so alas. It's just one of those weeks. I'm pretty scattered. But here's a picture of Henry, from his 4th birthday party:

My dumpling.

Sometimes, life just stinks...

It's been a tough couple days here in the life of the Catholic Librarian. Well, for me, it's simply been vicarious emotional worry and anxiety, but for my sister's family it's been much, much worse. On Monday night, an accident caused a fire to start on the outside of their house, and it quickly wrecked structural devastation. Most importantly, everybody is ok, including their cats. Unfortunately, their house is not. It's going to have to be gutted, which is going to take a considerable amount of time and money. Thank goodness, they have good homeowners insurance, and that will cover everything. But in the mean time, they have few salvageable possessions. They'll be displaced from their home for at least 6 months, and they have 2 small boys. It's been an emotional couple of days.

Thankfully, once word got out, they've been the recipients of much generosity and love. Everyone has been busy worker bees assemblying donations of toys, clothes, toiletries, and other necessities. My parents are headed there this weekend (my sister and her family live about a 5 hour drive from us) so that will help. I'm hoping to go visit them in their temporary house next month sometime. We'll get them through this one day at a time.

So, that's been on my mind, which accounts for the lack of blog posts and Twitter/Facebook updates for the past day. I'm hanging in there.

Also on Monday, I had to take Henry for his 4 year well child checkup. Mike was teaching, so I had to man the job myself, and I knew it was going to involve shots. Henry is very good about receiving shots; on the other hand, I am not. I just hate for my baby to have to experience pain.

When Henry asked me if it would hurt, I ws honest with him and told him yes, but that it would just be for a second; and in return, he wouldn't get sick with these terrible diseases that shots help us not to get. When the moment came, I hugged him in my arms while the nurse prepared his arm:

"Mommy, what's she doing? Is it going to hur...OW! OW, MOMMY!" *accusing little index finger pointed right at the nurse* "Mommy, that lady HURT-TED ME!!"

Regardless of how irrational it is, in that moment, you just want to slap the nurse, grab your baby, and race from the room. Sometimes, life is just like that.

Adventures in Belly Dancing, Advanced Edition

This past Friday, I started my new belly dance class. It's the advanced level class, followed by a half hour choreography segment for the performance group. I am so super excited and happy about all of this, I can't even tell you. It's like my belly dancing dream. I dream small :)

So, I arrived Friday evening feeling decidedly nervous. My previous class meets right before this new one, and I was feeling a bit self-conscious about suddenly appearing for the new class, despite the fact that Claire personally invited me. Another girl from my class, Karen, had also been invited to move up, so I held out for her arrival, figuring we could stick together.

I get there early and sit amongst the other advanced class members. They all smile politely at me, but I could tell they were wondering what I was doing. I just assembled myself and sat still as a flag pole, beseeching Karen to arrive.

Karen didn't arrive. Now I'm sweating. You know, the usual course of things. My previous class finishes, and as they file out, they all look at me oddly too. I smile weakly and take my place on the floor for warmup. Obviously, Claire hasn't said anything to anyone else about Karen and I switching classes.

I felt self-conscious (and sweaty) for the whole hour, but I held my own. This class is definitely more difficult than my last one, and it challenged me. But I loved it. I kept up with the belly drills, and not all of my sweat was from anxiety. This was a good workout.

Finally, at the end of the class period, but before performance group practice, as we were all taking a quick break, Claire remembered my plight.

"Oh! This is Tiffany, our new performance group member!"

I received lots of happy acknowledgements and smiles. I felt relieved. Then I tried to get up from my perch along the side of the room and realized that I had managed to get my hip scarf coins stuck in the radiator. Classy.

But at any rate, Claire continued on undaunted:

"Where are my sword dancers?"

Well, that's definitely not me, WHEW. Claire explained that the group was divided into two camps for the new choreography, one wielding swords the other using a cool veil/fan combo mechanism. I'm a happy new member of the veil/fan group.

We practiced a few moves and put them together into a fledgling choreography. It's super cute and I'm SO EXCITED. Have I mentioned that yet?

So, I finished up in one piece, and the group let me know that they often meet for a drink afterward and I'm welcome to join them anytime. Yea.

This weekend, I practiced with my fan (not as easy as it looks) and emailed Karen to secure her attendance this coming Friday :) She's coming, thank God. I can't wait.

Henry gem of the week...

I'm going to warn all readers now - this post will involve the word 'poo.' Parents will be totally unfazed by this, but for those of who have not navigated the world of potty training, I wanted to provide fair warning :)

So, poo. Why is it that toddlers/pre-schoolers (particularly boys, it seems) detest performing this necessary bodily function? Is it really so difficult? All of us wish we didn't have to do it, but the fact is, we do. As Hank would say "That's how God made us, Mommy."

From the time we started potty training Henry, he was resistant. At first, he was an equal opportunity resistor and also resisted going pee on the potty. He got over that fairly easily, though in the process he developed The Bladder of Steel. The child can go ALL DAY on a single pee. It's downright unprecedented. But he's gotten better with that. He doesn't mind peeing on the potty, especially now that he knows how to do it standing up. Standing up to pee is apparently *way cool.*

Poo is a completely different story. To this day, Henry will deny that he has to poo even as the room begins to stink and his stomach cramp. He came casually waltzing into the living room one day, saying "I don't have to poo," as he LIMPED across the room. The child was *limping* and yet still would not poo.

Every trip to the potty in which the 'p' word is mentioned causes a chain reaction involving vehement protestations, angry frowns, and inevitably, one bursting into tears:

"Henry, do you have to poo?"

"NO!" *pause* "Mommy, could I have a fresh pair of underwear?"

"Henry, that means you have to poo."

"NO! I DON'T HAVE TO POO!! That's NOT NICE to say that!!"

"Henry, honey, just *poo*! Really, you'll feel so much better. Mommy will read you a book while you go."

"NO! I DON'T HAVE TO POO!!"

And so it goes.

Yesterday afternoon, Henry sequestered himself underneath the dining room table, claiming that he was on a space ship and was about to take off. The "takeoff fumes" caught my attention, so I got suspicious, and went to investigate:

"Henry, do you have to poo?"

*pause*

"Mommy, there's no bathroom on my space ship."

Well. Isn't that convenient?

Other news...

I got so absorbed in my birthing post that I forgot about a bunch of other things. The first of which is that my little Honda Civic is being repaired as I type, and I'm quite happy about it. And the damage is less than $300, so we'll label that a victory and call it a day. I'm so reliant on my car, I'm be thrilled to get little Civic back running smoothly and happily.

And in fact, I need it tonight because I have bellydance class tonight. And tonight, for the first time, I was invited to join the next session as a member of the advanced class and performance group, and I couldn't be more pleased about this. I've had a smile plastered on my face for weeks. I'm super duper happy.

The bad news is that yesterday we received Henry's school pictures. *sighs* Remember, the shirt debacle from two mornings ago? Well, Henry exacted his revenge, if unwittingly.

We'll go back in time to sum up this experience, 2 years. That was Henry's first year at the daycare, and his pictures turned out *smashing*. I mean, I know he's my kid and all, but he's super, SUPER cute and photogenic. And his picture was awesome. We chose the fall/harvest background, and 2-year old Henry is sitting cherubically among a pumpkin and bushel of fall leaves, clutching an apple in one hand. His cheeks are pink, his blue eyes (I must have a recessive gene; I can't explain this any other way) are sparkling, and his smile is bright. That's still my favorite picture of him of all time, and I still have it displayed in our dining room.

The next year, I signed up for all kinds of pictures based on the promise of the previous year. The pictures were...ok. Not bad. Not great, but certainly not bad. I didn't like that I had put an adorable bear sweater on Henry and they had him pose with his legs cruched up in front of him, so you couldn't see it. His smile looked a bit forced, but it wasn't terrible. His cheeks were again real rosy, and I love the fall background.

So, this year, it's his last year at our wonderful daycare/preschool. I ordered a bunch of pictures (it's the same photography company) and hoped for a result like the first year. And, this year...the pictures are just bad. And I could live with them being bad if I hadn't spent $80 on them. But I don't want to spend $80 on pictures in which Henry looks like he's either (a) constipated, or (b) in terrific pain and trying to hide it bravely. They're just not good. And I find this inexcusable (even in the school pictures trade, where bad pictures are the cherished norm) in the age of digital photography. You snap the picture, see immediately that the kid's face looks pinched and painful, and thus you rearrange him and snap another. It's so simple, and I really think this is what should happen.

Sigh. So, I'm not happy about this whole thing. But you win some, you lose some, right?

It's my baby's birthday...

*sniffle* My precious guy is 4 years old today. I remember vividly that day 4 years ago when he came into this world...

Actually, it all began November 5, 2005, the day before Henry was born. I awoke and did notice one physical sign that labor may be imminent, and I will spare you the details of what that sign was. But I wasn't due for another week, and you know what they say about first babies - they're usually late. As with most labor signs, it could mean that I would go into labor either within the hour, or 2 weeks from then. I didn't think too much of it. Mostly though, that was because my nesting brain was set on so many other things. Knowing what you know about me, what would you think I did the day before I gave birth to my son? That's right; a million different things, all of which kept me perpetually in motion with a tremendous burst of annoying high-paced energy.

First, I rearranged our pots and pans. A pressing problem that just could not wait, right? I was actually down on my hands and knees, belly and all, stacking and re-stacking things in the cupboards. Once that was complete, I figured with all of my pots arranged, I might as well put them to good use and make homemade sauce (which I haven't done again since that day, fyi). Mike comes into the kitchen to find me frantically chopping bell peppers and onion, tomato puree sizzing on the stove top. He managed to get me to turn off the sauce for a bit so that we could take a walk together. At that time, we still lived in an apartment in the city, and we took a beautiful walk, even taking some pictures in front of trees in their full fall foliage glory. That sucked down about an hour, and still, I was not drained of energy.

We got back and I finished the sauce, and our dinner. I made the announcement that I wanted to go to the vigil Mass that evening (Saturday) just in case I didn't feel up to Mass in the morning. A fortuitous choice. Off to Mass I trekked, where I also went to Confession before the service started. At the conclusion of Mass, Fr. Jim announced that the Sacrament of the Sick would be available, so I went to that as well. That's 3 sacraments in the couse of an hour and a half, people. Now that's impressive. I was loaded up.

After I got back home, I did more general house and nursery straightening and re-straightening. I folded teeny tiny sleepers and itty bitty socks. Finally, I was spent. My belly and I went to bed.

I was sleeping (uncomfortably, of course) at 2 am and awoke with cramps. I shifted position (not an easy feat for a woman who is 9 months pregnant) in a vain attempt to get more comfortable. I did that for at least 15 minutes, in denial that I had to actually get out of bed. Finally, and very crankily I might add, I got out of bed without waking Mike and went into the living room.

I remember wondering why this all couldn't have started at, oh I don't know, 9 am instead of 2. After I had a full night of sleep. And I also remember thinking, "well, with as uncomfortable as sleeping has been this whole pregnancy, it's not like getting up with a newborn could be any worse." SNORT. Ok parents, just admit it, you're dying laughing right now. Because, oooohhhh yes sir, the sleep deprivation that accompanies having a newborn is so much infinitely more difficult for so many reasons.

But at any rate, on that day I was blissfully living in my ignorance of such things, and I had a whole different problem going on. I timed my contractions, and read a bit of the Diary of St. Faustina. *halo* I paced around, inspecting my belly for clues. Around 3:30 am, Mike discovered that I was missing and came out in search of me. When my contractions got to 5 minutes apart, I called my obstetrician's 24 hour nurses line and Vicki advised me to proceed to the hospital. So at 4:30 am on November 6, 2005, we did, nervous excitement permeating our car windows.

Once I got to the hospital, I saw my obstetrican, whom I adore, which was great. But then they shuttled me to a birthing room and that's when I got unhappy. I was hooked up to all manner of devices and couldn't walk more than a foot from the bed. Plus, they had to "check me in" and asked me a slew of annoying questions, all while I was writhing in discomfort.

Hours passed. Any number of hospital employees managed to tee me off, though granted, I wasn't exactly myself. I actually banned the general on-call obstetrician in the labor/delivery wing from my room because I just didn't like his attitude. The CatholicLibrarian Unhappy Mind Ray was pointed in his direction in full force. I liked my nurse and agreed that the midwife could come near me, so I stuck with them. I didn't see my own doctor again, of course, until I was ready to deliver. And by that point, I had pretty much agreed to marry the anesthesiologist, meaning that your CatholicLibrarian was in some serious, serious pain.

In the final hours, I remember thinking to myself "there's no getting out of this now, is there? Boy, this sucks." Ah, well :) I remember writhing and clutching the hospital bed armrest. In between contractions, my doctor (quite young, and had an 18 month old at home and one on the way) was chatting with the nurse. My doctor mentioned that my nurse had also been her nurse when she delivered her son, and I remember thinking "Gee, that seems a bit awkward," but they didn't seem to think so. I like them both quite a bit, but they were starting to put me in a near occasion of saying a swear word by taking their gloves off between my contractions. At this point, there's like about 10 seconds between gut splitting contractions and I want THIS BABY OUT NOW so for the love of God, KEEP YOUR GLOVES ON!!!

And so the big moment finally arrived. Mike and I had chosen not to find out our baby's gender, so we were all excited about the big reveal. Well, I imagine Mike was excited; my sole mental focus was beseeching God to please let this all be over, and I didn't want to divert any energy away from that. I heard my doctor say "It's a Henry!!" And so our little guy came into the world.

I opened my eyes (all that beseeching requires eyes squeezed closed for maximum effectiveness) and I saw Henry for the first time. It was a poignant moment, seeing how he looked like us. I remember that the look on his face said "What on earth just happened here?" The doctor placed him on my belly and he gave one of those adorable "wah wah" newborn cries. Mike cut his umbillical cord and we were in business.

One final anecdote. That night, after all of the family had left, and I was left in my hospital room, blissful with my cable tv and no-longer-pregnant body (instant relief from sciatica and any number of other discomforts) I recall rolling on my belly and nearly dissolving from the pleasure of that position, denied me since about month 4. I fell into a deep sleep, denied me since about, oh I don't know, fertilization? and awoke at 3 am to nurse Hank. When he was done, I happily buzzed the nurses' station and told them that the baby was all set. A nurse came and whisked him away, and I fell back to sleep. At 6 am, he appeared again, swaddled in his little bassinette, to nurse. I happily awoke to accommodate him. And do you know what I thought? I thought that in between those times, THE BABY WAS SLEEPING. Go ahead, fall over laughing. That was the final night of my blissful ignorance.

And here we are, 4 years later. *sob* My baby!! How far we've all come.

*Sighs*...at least Advent is coming...

I guess this is just one of those weeks. Happily, I'm emotionally feeling a ton better following our downer of a day on Sunday. But things continue to be challenging and we're just doing our best with them.

Last night I came home to a tantruming Henry. I'm not certain what is going on with him, but he's definitely having a bad week. It wasn't a pleasant evening, but we got through it. This morning, I really, really wanted things to go better. Mike brought Henry with him to walk down to the newspaper machine at the end of our street, which went over big. Both had an excellent time. Everything was going great, until...7:45 am. Henry was behaving angelically, and was watching Tom & Jerry in the living room while sipping his orange juice; Mike was blissfully reading the paper. I was in the upstairs bathroom brushing my teeth. Suddenly - I had a revelation. Today is picture day.

*GROAN*

This means that we need to change Henry out of the casual pants and Transformers shirt that he chose, and stuff his (I'm undoubtedly certain) unhappy little body into formal slacks and a button down shirt. I'm filled with a sense of foreboding - this is not going to go well.

Sure enough, the next 20 minutes are filled with:

"I DON'T WANT TO WEAR THIS SHIRT!! I DON'T LIKE THIS SHIRT, MOMMY!!!!!"

Despite much cajoling, he cried all the way to the car, where, once again, the fun escalated as he refused to get in his car seat. I handled things much better this time (one would think that I'd be used to the foibles of motherhood, since my child is about to turn 4. One would think. It's a continual learning process :) and managed to get Henry strapped in after only 3 minutes of torturesome sobbing. We chatted about outdoor holiday decorations on the way to school, which perked him up some, but the instant we arrived and I unstrapped him from his seat, the sourpuss face was back in full force. I agreed that we could ride the elevator, in an effort to appease, but he was still pretty prickly when we arrived at his classroom.

I kissed him up, hating all the while that I have to work the evening reference shift tonight and won't see him before he goes to bed. His teacher said that that if he tugged on the shirt too much, she would put him in one of the extra casual shirts we keep in his locker until the picture, since they wouldn't be taken until noon. That made me feel better.

So then, I left for work. *sighs* My car is doing something "funny." That's never a good word to combine with talk of one's vehicle. Every time I slow or stop, the car stutters forward when I step on the gas again. It was doing it a bit yesterday, but this morning it was worse. I'm going to have to take it in for service, and I loathe doing that. I always feel like taking your car in is like writing a blank check to the garage, because no matter what needs to be done, spending merely a few hundred dollars is pretty much a pipe dream. But it's bad, so I have no choice. And my in-laws are coming to visit this weekend for Henry's birthday, and if I have no car, this will be a problem. Mike also has a car, but it's a standard transmission, and I don't know how to drive it. This isn't good.

Somehow, my spirits are still high, despite the week's best efforts to get me down. I just got back from daily Mass, which is always a good thing. As well, I seized the opportunity to pick up a few Advent supplies that I'm very excited about.

I picked up a felt Advent wreath for Henry that is adorable. We have a traditional one with candles, but this one will be his very own. Henry has also expressed an interest in my scapular, and I have a tiny wooden one that I love. It's gotten very worn, so I bought 2 more, one for each of us. So, this all has brightened me a bit.

I'm working until 7 tonight, and then I have to go home and straighten up the house for my in-laws' arrival tomorrow afternoon. Mike and Henry are baking cupcakes tonight to bring in for his birthday. Please God, don't let there be batter on the ceiling when I get home...

Feeling a bit better...

Thankfully, what could have been a very tough week has been looking up. After I got home last night, I called my dentist to re-reschedule my wisdom tooth extraction. This afternoon, with Henry in tow, just wasn't going to work for me. I'm sure Henry would have been fine, but after having had a tooth pulled, I would then have to go home and care for him for the rest of the evening (Mike teaches Tuesday nights) and then get up and come in to work Wednesday for my long day complete with an evening reference shift. I got tired just thinking about all of that.

On top of that, I've also been focusing on feeling better following my experience with Henry at Mass on Sunday. Everything in life is a journey, and it's going to have bumps along the way. I'm still going to be super paranoid when I go back to my parish, but what can I do? I did my best; I'm going to have to accept that I couldn't have done anything more. And I can worry about it next week - this Sunday I'll go to the Latin Mass with my mother-in-law, and most likely, Henry will stay home to play with daddy and grandpa. It's so rare that I get to attend Mass childless (which is fine with me; I know I'm doing the right thing by bringing Henry regularly) that it's a special treat to be able to hear everything and concentrate on the readings and the liturgy.

So, in all the fray, I forgot to take pictures of my recent crochet projects; will do so shortly :) I'm working on a pair of mittens for myself now, and they're coming out nicely. They're a bit big, but I purposely made them longer so that they would really keep my hands toasty. But what is it with things I make - they tend to have gigantism. Even Henry is really, really big for his age :) I obviously have special creation abilities...

Now that Henry is about to be 4, the question of "So, are you having another one?!" is really going into overdrive. I'm always uncomfortable with that question, because it seems so personal. Also, I don't like the assumptions that people make (generally) when they ask it; which are that it's very cut and dry as to whether you are or are not, and if you are not, you must be doing something active to put the kibosh on it, which in our case isn't true. But I really don't want to get into discussing such a personal thing with people :) So, I find it very awkward. I usually sputter something like "Well...maybe :) You never know!" which seems to confuse people, but alas.

Someone at work said to me the other day: "Oh, you're Catholic? You're one of *them.*" She was teasing, but there's definitely an undertone there - yes, I'm Catholic, and we're a little different; I see that as a good thing :)