I Like Life, Life Likes Me. I Make Life a Perpetual Spree.

Well, since once again no one has invited me to a party at which I can wear a glittery cocktail dress, enjoy an open bar, dance to a great band, and then crash in a hotel room on someone else's dime, I guess we will spend NYE as per the usual: on the couch watching the Twilight Zone. Because, really, if I'm not going with Option A (glittery cocktail party on someone else's dime) then Option B (Twilight Zone and bed at 9) sounds pretty damn good.

2014, to you I say, so long, farewell, auf Wiedersehen, goodnight.

To Nils, I say, you are the cutest most wonderful thing to come out of this year!

We have much to give thanks for this year. A new brilliant beautiful wonderful boy. A vivacious fabulous Carolena. Family and friends. Good health all around (Halleluiah!). Sure, we encountered a few zingers this year, but overall, life is good and we give thanks to God for our many many blessings.

2015, what about you? What will you bring?
So far you have promised us foundation repairs. Come on, 2015, get a grip. We have better things to do. Let's concentrate on plenty of beach trips, time with family and friends, and the accomplishment of the one armed push up goal that I'm working toward.

For now, I'll spend the day with my beautiful family, tuck those kiddos into bed, turn on the Twilight Zone and take a cup o' kindness yet to auld lang syne.

Cup o' kindness means wine, right?

W.O.W.

Words of Wisdom
By Carolena

If you have a cold, cough. Cough often. Cough on everything. See that tv over there with Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer playing on it? Cough on the Bumble. See the serving bowl full of mashed potatoes on the table? Cough on that too. Daddy's eye? Yep, you guessed it: cough. Little brother innocently playing nearby? Cough. Cough. Cough.

If you have a cough, throw up. Nothing says, "I'm miserable and need more sympathy" like throwing up in your own bed from coughing too much.

On the Fourth Day of Christmas My True Love Gave to Me... Xanax?

Nothing says "Fourth Day of Christmas" like a clergy spouse standing in the rain mere steps from the narthex while the service has already started, yelling "I don't care that your raincoat isn't buttoned!" at her child while trying to balance two bags of canned goods, an umbrella, a diaper bag, and a baby in her arms. People around here are tired and we've been to church a lot this week. Thank God for the two men who came out to grab the bags and the umbrella.

But really, in a strange way, isn't that what community is all about?

Some people claim that they don't need to go to church on Sunday mornings because they worship God on their own. I think that's a cop-out. Get your lazy butt out of bed, put on real clothes, and find a community to worship with. Because community is not about the "show" of being in church. And, guess what, community doesn't have to be perfect. In fact, none are.

Having a community means having a group of people there to catch you when you are flailing and rejoice with you when you are soaring. It means having a group of people to surround you as you go through the ups and downs of life. It means having familiar faces to greet you when you are having a morning in which people are tired and yelling at one another. It means that I will see those same beautiful faces next Sunday, when we are (hopefully) more with it and not yelling at one another outside of the church doors.

One day over the summer Chris and I attended a party at which we were the youngest people by about thirty years. And you know what? That was one of the most fun parties I've been to in a long time. Or ever. If we didn't have a church community would we even know people of all ages? Or would we just hang out with other parents in our general age group? I can just picture that now: all parties with children screaming and smearing pizza sauce onto things while the adults zone out in tiredness drinking beer and talking about potty training. Actually, scratch that, when was the last time people in our age group even had a party? We'd all rather put kids into bed and crash on our own couches watching reruns of Friends. Am I right or am I right? Right? Right? Right?

I am thankful that I have a group of people who know me and I know them. They've seen my daughter learn to walk. They've seen her throw tantrums in church, eat more than her fair share of donuts, and sing like an adorable little angel on Christmas Eve. They've seen me wallow in the misery of pregnancy and celebrated with us when our son was born. They've seen Nils as a small nugget riding in my papoose grow into a wild man crawling as fast as possible down the aisle to get to the front and see Daddy.

Yes, I am thankful for community. Nothing could replace the beauty of having a church community to live life with.

...and to help grab the bags when people are getting rained on and just need to get into the building.

It Was... Soap... Poisoning!

We were standing crowded together in the small landing at the top of my parents' staircase. In a huddle between my room and Hunter's, we talked about childhood. Kelly and Hunter were shocked to discover that my mouth had never been tasteless enough to be punished with soap. "You've never had your mouth washed out with soap?!" they exclaimed, looking at one another in astonishment and looking at me like I had grown antlers.

They proceeded to pull the oldest trick in the book. "It tastes good" they insisted. "Parents don't know that kids actually love it. It's all really a trick on parents" they explained to me.

So, it was then, as a teen, that I washed my own mouth out with soap.

Kelly and Hunter.
They're very persuasive.

More Like Zeroes in a Half Shell... Am I Right?

This was Carolena's first Christmas to be really excited about something specific that she wanted from Santa. Last Christmas she was excited about the idea of Santa coming. This year she was excited about what he might bring.

This was also Carolena's first time to learn the hard way that Santa doesn't always bring what you want. Bummer. Turns out if you can't be persuaded to ask Santa for something other than a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle bike and a live wombat, you're going to be disappointed. You'll shoot your eye out kid.

Come Christmas morning Carolena dashed out to the fireplace only to find a pink and white bike with flowers on it and a TMNT zippered bag attached to it. I could tell by her face that she was devastated. All visions of making the neighborhood jealous as she whipped down the street on her new black and green bike flew from her head as she stared at a bike with flowers on it. Flowers.

Carolena was insanely mature about the bike. I think she knew deep down that the wombat was a long shot, but the bike she thought was in the bag. We'd looked at bikes in stores all over town. She would stare at "the Teenage Mutant Turtle one" and tell me that was the one she was going to ask Santa to bring. She could not be persuaded otherwise. Unfortunately for Carolena, they don't make those bikes small enough for her.

They also don't make Ninja Turtle bikes for girls (uhhh... helllo?!?!) and as my mom put it, "have you ever fallen onto that bar?!" So getting the too big boy bike was not an option for Santa. Not an option at all. Except for when it was an option and in the shopping cart sleigh and then second thoughts crept in... but no, not an option.

She was a great sport about it though. She still acted happy and posed for pictures. There was no mention of disappointment or failure on the part of the right jolly old elf himself.

Later on in the day she quietly mentioned that while she had asked Santa specificially for a Ninja Turtles bike, he had instead brought her a pink and purple bike with flowers on it. Flowers, for pete's sake.

I think she had Ramona-esk visions of speeding through our streets on the TMNT bike, the envy of all other kids and these visions were destroyed by something in the form of pink and purple. Poor Carolena. It was a little heart-wrenching, but did make me think of my friend who told me recently that she wishes her parents had not raised her to believe that she could always have anything she wanted. This, she says, has led her to be thirty-something and just now having to learn the hard way that she does not and cannot in fact, "have it all."

So, yes, Carolena, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy. Alas! How dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus! It would be as dreary as if there were no Carolenas. He might not bring you live animals from Australia or bikes that are intended for boys several inches taller than you, but thank God he lives and he lives forever. A thousand years from now, Carolena, nay 10 times 10 thousand years from now, he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood.

And, thankfully for mommies everywhere, making glad the heart of childhood has nothing to do with live wombats. Well, very little to do with them at least.

One Hand in My Pocket

If you are cruising along and Alanis Morissette's One Hand in My Pocket comes on the radio you know one of two things must be true: either (a) you are in a Delorian and have just crossed the space/time continuum back into 1990something OR (b) you live close enough to Houston to listen to any of their radio stations which all seem to believe that Alanis and Ace of Base have withstood the test of time.

I got one hand in my pocket and the other one is... doing a blind finger sweep to pull things out of Nils' mouth while I screech, "That's not food! What's in there?" Usually it's not food. Sometimes it's candy, in which case he sobs and I give it back. I believe it's the second child's privilege to eat floor candy.

I got one hand in my pocket and the other one is wiping a small child's rear end. And then the floor covered in urine.

I got one hand in my pocket and the other one is making dinner while a baby holds onto my legs and yells. Does he want anything? No, not in particular. Unless what he wants is to hold onto my legs and yell at me while I make dinner. In which case, score one for Nils!

I got one hand in my pocket... and it just found some stale goldfish and old shriveled pieces of gnawed on apple slices in there. Damn, I was hoping it was going to be cash.

Clergy Spouse Confessions

Sometimes I like to make mental lists of career choices for my husband that would have been harder on me. So this morning as we get ready for church and look forward to his upcoming vacation days, I sip my coffee and give thanks that Chris is not an Astronaut on the ISS, 19th century whaling captain, or a hit man for hire. That I know of.

One day recently I was standing in the narthex with a heavy baby on my hip (no offense Monsieur Nils) glancing over the shoulder of the person talking to me (to make sure Carolena was in fact only taking one donut) when I saw Chris. He walked into the Narthex and slipped right into the bathroom. And it was then, in that moment, that I came to understand the feeling of pure unadulterated envy. Ah, to know the freedom of just stopping in a bathroom when one needs. No worries about how to keep a three year old from "touching everything!" and juggle a baby on one's lap while urinating. That, my friends, is freedom.

I once poured old sour milk into my coffee on a Sunday morning. I tried my best to make it work but after several sips just had to dump it. Knowing that there is always hot coffee percolating in the parish hall just gets us to church faster every Sunday morning.

This morning I'm going to remember to pee before we leave the house.

Lessons Learned

On Thursday Carolena fell out of our bed, hit her eye on the bedside table, and woke up Friday with a fairly impressive black eye.

On Friday night I found her jumping on the bed singing, "It's a hard 'nuff life for us!" at the top of her lungs (yes, "hard nuff" - it's adorable). I asked, "didn't you just learn that falling out of the bed really hurts?!" which stopped her jumping and screaming just long enough for her to breathlessly reply, "I'm not jumping in your bed! I'm jumping in my bed!"

Touche.

TGIF

Judging by the casual "we got this" attitudes of the McDoncald's employees, I think it's safe to assume that kids pee in the playplace regularly. Perhaps daily?

I didn't say anything to the kid busily prancing in the growing puddle. I mean, really, what else could it have been? My child was calling from up above, "Mommy! I tee teed in the slide!" Plus, his parent was already pushing him out of it. Parent Peepee will probably try to convince themselves it was Sprite. Until it's their turn to run screaming from the building with a baby under one arm, dragging a kid with soaking pants to the car.

Back on the home front Carolena got snuggled into Christmas pjams and we watched Annie trailers online. Daddy came home early and we all piled into Mommy & Daddy's bed to talk about our days and make plans for the evening.

And that was when Carolena fell off the bed and got what will probably turn out to be a sizeable shiner for Christmas.

Hurry Christmas, hurry fast, we've been good but it can't last.

Beau Brummelly

Earlier this week Nils and I went shopping in hopes of finding something cute for the kids to wear to church for Christmas. A relatively new mom of two, I had visions of each store displaying tons of cute matching holiday finery which I would have to narrow down for C&N. After years of my sister's complaints that there is "nothing nice for boys" you would think I would have known better.

Nils and I braved Katy Mills in the height of Christmas season and came out with... pajamas. There are racks and racks of girls' Christmas dresses and then just t-shirts for boys. T-shirts? I can just picture our family photos now: all of us standing together at church in our Christmas finery. Chris in his big chasuble, my new hat, Carolena's fluffy dress, and Nils... in a t-shirt with a reindeer pooping on it.

What I want is to walk into the Gap, or Old Navy, or Target and see a display of nice Christmas clothes all together. Matching sweater dresses and sweaters (or sweater vests). Oxford shirts for boys. Slacks. And don't even get me started on the selection of boys' church shoes. This doesn't seem complicated.

Instead... The Gap had girls' sweater dresses and boys' t-shirts together. And sweatpants! This was all on the same center display - girls' dresses, boys' tees and sweatpants. What kind of a guy wears a tee and sweatpants when the girl he's with is wearing a dress? A guy who lives in his parents' basement planning the murders of innocent neighborhood cats... that's who.

Old Navy had a girls' Christmas dresses and the nicest thing they had for boys were flannel lumber jack shirts and skull sweaters. Nice. Maybe Old Navy is the one actually catering to the murderous male?

Next year I'm just going to knit a matching dress and sweater for these guys. I'll have to start in July to get it done, but oh, it will be worth it. This year, I am going to dig through Kelly's kids' hand-me-downs and doll Nils up in something Williams-worthy (which means it will be preppy and adorable).

And Cut. That's a Wrap.

When Chris and I were engaged I was sitting at my parents' kitchen table working on something for the wedding (I have no memory of what it was) and totally stressing out about it. My mom finally put an end to it by yelling politely suggesting, "Casey, everything you touch is turning to shit right now! Put it away!"

I immediately turned to my brother, grabbed his shoulder, and then cackled, "Ha! Mom just called you shit!"

Remember the time I spent months working on a handmade project for my sister and then decided right before Christmas that I didn't like it and started something new?

Last night I showed Chris the new project and we determined it is ungiftable in it's current state (which was in theory "finished"). Hopefully it's not unsalvageable. I then made a double batch of caramel corn for Carolena's teachers that was taken from the oven and dumped into the trash.

Today I woke up at 4am, drank a ton of coffee, and worked out. Caramel corn: take two. Kelly's handmade gift: take three. Coffee drinking: take one million.

Hunter, want to come over and entertain me while everything I touch turns to poo-poo again?

Expectant Waiting

For a pregnant woman, the last weeks of waiting are some of the most intense. The fear of childbirth and the unknown of when it will begin. The excitement of the baby finally arriving after so much waiting and waiting and waiting. The feeling of knowing it could be "any day now" or weeks of still more waiting.

In the gospel of Luke when we find Jesus anticipating his arrest and coming passion (ch 22), the Greek word translated "anguish" or "agony" leads us to view Jesus with every muscle tensed. That's the "agony" described. Agony is not a very good translation into English - but alas, I cannot think of a better single word either. It's not agony like the agony of stubbing your barefoot toe on concrete. Agony in this sense is more like a runner. He is like the last person in a relay waiting for the baton. Every muscle is tensed. The anticipation is palpable.

I like to see this particular agony like that of the last weeks of pregnancy. Every emotional muscle is tensed waiting. Could today be the day? Am I going to make it all the way to lunch? Will I go to bed in my own bed tonight or be in the hospital? Will we have a newborn here in a few days? Or next week? Bags are ready and by the door. A crib is set up and the nursery is clean. A carseat rides around empty in the car.

This is Advent.

This is how we are to await the second coming of Christ. Like a woman awaiting the birth of a child. Like a runner poised to grab the baton for the final lap. We are supposed to live in such a way that our spiritual muscles are tense with anticipation. Like the parents who paint the nursery and wipe off every surface in anticipation of their newborn child. Like the father who glances at his wife's enormous belly and decides to go to bed a little earlier just in case he's awakened during the night to rush her to the hospital. Advent is the first season of our church calendar year and it should not surprise us that this first season reminds us of how we are to live out our lives. We are to live in anticipation. We are to live in this type of agony. Waiting. Watching. Preparing. Living our lives in advent as we make our song, "Oh come, oh come, Emmanuel."

The Very Thirsty Butterfly

The Very Thirsty Butterfly
A sequel

Once upon a time there was a very hungry caterpillar. She ate and ate and ate until she turned into a chrysalis and yadda yadda yadda.

Then the beautiful butterfly had some caterpillar babies and that is where this tale begins.

The very thirsty butterfly was now a mother. And thus, her life was crazy. And that was what transformed her from a butterfly... into a very thirsty butterfly. She changed diapers and did laundry and fed those very very hungry caterpillars. So, she drank coffee. She cleaned the house (sometimes) and did more laundry and fed those very hungry caterpillars some more. Then she reheated yesterday's old cup of joe. She went grocery shopping and ran errands and did more laundry. She drank coffee by the gallon.

Night came and the very thirsty butterfly fed hungry caterpillars and bathed them and tucked them in. Then the very thirsty butterfly settled down on the couch with hopes of getting up for a glass of wine after just "resting her eyes for a minute..." but awoke a few hours later to find it was time for her to peel herself off the couch, take out her contacts, and get in bed.

Morning came and the very thirsty butterfly brewed another pot.

Wove and Mawwiage

I think the key to a healthy marriage is forgiveness.

Clearly you should take my word for it, I've been married all of 8.5 years.

Seriously though, it's forgiveness.

Sometimes you have to forgive your husband for telling the pregnant woman that you said you already could tell she was pregnant. I thought I'd said that in private.

Sometimes you have to forgive your wife for getting rid of your expensive comfortable desk chair because "it was ugly." I was young and stupid.

Sometimes you have to forgive your husband for undercooking her steak. I need to drink more wine before I eat something that can still moo.

Sometimes you have to forgive your wife for calling you and saying, "dinner is a huge burned mess please come home with pizza." Heh, yeahh...

Sometimes you have to forgive your husband for repeatedly leaving his clothes on the bathtub ledge.
Sometimes you have to forgive your wife for repeatedly leaving her clothes anywhere she damn well pleases.

Sometimes you have to forgive your wife for blogging about you.

Wove and Mawwiage... forgiveness is the key.

Love Is

One of my favorite people in the whole world just made the cut to be featured in this:
http://www.refinery29.com/love-definitions#slide
Beth is just too damn cool.

So, for me, today...

Love is waking up with a killer migraine, no medicine, and wanting to wallow in bed for the rest of my life, but getting up anyway to change someone's diaper and play "Santa" to someone being "Frosty the Snowman."

Love is a husband who drives halfway across one of the largest cities in the US to track down one of the only boxes of migraine medicine available right at that moment.

Love is telling Carolena that I feel better and we can go out to lunch today. Love is Carolena showing me a dingy old penny in her pocket as though it is a special secret while whispering that she is going to buy lunch today for all of us.

Love is waking up each morning in this beautiful life that Chris and I have built together.

Know When to Hold 'Em and Know When to Fold 'Em

I don't play poker (just because I don't know how, not for moral reasons you weirdos). I don't play poker, but I do know when to hold 'em and when to fold 'em.

And by that I mean the one handmade item I've been working on for months, the one item I planned out last year and put into motion this fall, got folded last night. Well, not literally, as it is lying in a big heap on the countertop, but I finally set it aside as a loss.

Kelly was supposed to receive a beautiful handmade surprise from me this Christmas. I've been working on it and working on it and working on it.

But, mama said there'd be days like this, and it was time to set it aside. Evidently, announcing months ago "I'm not going to be too anal about this because I want it to look homey" resulted in a project that looks like Prince Gerhardt made it.

When I make something for someone I like to pour love and good vibrations into it. Though I love the idea of what I was making (which is why it's still a secret), the reality made me grumpy. So, there was that. Plus, last night when I imagined Kelly's friends asking her about the item and her saying that I made it, the humiliation that washed over me made me realize it's time to call it a loss.

So, December 8th, here we are. Nice to see you. Joann's, watch out here we come. New day. New plan. Luckily I have until Epiphany to get it together.

Clergy Spouse Confessions

Life on this side of the church can be strange. Beautiful. But strange. Especially when it comes to the laundry.

Recently I washed what I would estimate to be 30,000 white tablecloths belonging to our church. Is that my job? No. Was I happy to do it? Sure. I'm a mom. What's a few more loads of laundry? Like a few more drops to Niagara. Plus, I like helping out in ways that require little more than dumping things into the washing machine, dryer, and then sending them out the door with my hubby. That's easy cheesey. Yumm... cheese...

The laundry around here can get weird though. It seems common place now to search black shirt collars for forgotten collar studs abandoned by their wearer and sure to rip holes in my bed sheets (true story - the hole was totally round like a crop circle).

Black shirts fade to gray and yet continue to fall out of my dryer warm and ready to be hung. No need for ironing work shirts around here.

Albs are a different story. When I head toward our laundry room and see a large white ghost hanging out nearby it I know it's time for the oxiclean. Ring around the collar (eeww - tmi), port wine stains (yummm... wine...), and candle drippings are just a few of the things that can grace the alb. Have you ever ironed a huge tablecloth that has a hood and billowing sleeves? Yes? Great, then you're ready to be part of a clergy family.

Our laundry is never ending. If I were to write one of those online quizzes titled something like, "Are you ready to be a Mom?" one of the questions would be, "To what degree is your sanity based on the amount of laundry you do?" and if people answer in such a way that demonstrates a strong correlation between amount of laundry looming and sanity, I'll recommend they get a goldfish instead.

Escalators

Remember last week when I gave up caffeine cold turkey for like three or four days? No? Me neither. Yesterday I had three cups of coffee and limited myself (it was hard) to one Diet Coke at lunch.

Yesterday Carolena announced that she no longer going to ask Santa for a bike but instead is now going to ask for a real live wombat.

Is There a Doctor in the House?

This morning as Chris was leaving for work he stopped to say this:
"If your dermatologist turns out to be a handsome Scandinavian man again, please let him look at your body this time instead of just giggling and letting him only examine your face and arms."

My husband just told me to take my clothes off for gorgeous Scandinavians with names like Dr. Handsome.

Deal.

Here's hoping my new dermatologist has a sub in the office today!

*This is officially the least "becoming Leona" thing I've ever posted.

Giving Thanks Without Giving Anything?

This Thanksgiving was very low key in our house, which made it a little odd, but full of thanks and love nonetheless. That day I had time to reflect upon Thanksgiving and it occurred to me that we, as a culture, treat Thanksgiving Day as Opposite Day. We set aside a national day of giving thanks, and then what do we do to practice this thankfulness?

We get together with people we love rather than people who are disenfranchised. Is this thankfulness? Well, yes, but perhaps not in it's entirety.

Then, we cook a ton of food and eat it. We eat all day until we are full. We call that appetizers. Then, we sit down to a Thanksgiving feast and stuff more food into our already full bellies. Once the meal is over, we take some time to lie on the couch and "make a little room" for dessert, which we then indulge in freely. Is this thankfulness? No, I believe this is called gluttony.

Then, that evening and the next day we (not my family in particular, but culturally speaking "we") crowd into stores for Black Friday. We push and shove and heap things into our arms. We buy and buy and buy. Is this thankfulness? Nope, I'm pretty sure this is hoarding.

What a strange way for us to spend our day of thankfulness. As far as I can see we don't do anything that exhibits thankfulness other than offering thanks before one of our meals that day. Our Thanksgiving doesn't actually look like giving thanks does it?

All of this has led me to think that it might be impossible to truly give thanks by taking instead of giving.

Alfred Hitchcock Presents

As I was falling asleep the other night I found myself in that weird twilight zone somewhere between being awake and being asleep. I was asleep enough to feel like I was somewhere else entirely, but awake enough to know it was a memory and not a dream. Perhaps I had fallen into a pensieve? I was sitting in the front row of a packed theater. Sitting on either sides of me were my mom and siblings. My dad was on stage wearing... well... how can I best explain it?

My dad was dressed as Norman Bates dressed as Mother.

How's that for an unsettling image of the guy who tucks you in at night?

I vividly remember watching the performance. It was an Alfred Hitchcock Behind the Scenes kind of show in Disney World. Near the end of the show a bright light shone in the faces of me and my family and a camera cut to the four of us in the front row. Blinded by the light, we were surprised when Norman Bates suddenly appeared in front of us dressed in full Mother regalia and wielding a knife. I remember my family around me jumping in surprise and all of us laughing. I am sure that I initially jumped, but I remember instantly thinking, "That's not my Dad. They've switched him out" and sitting back into my chair. I remember knowing without a shadow of a doubt that while my dad would willingly dress as psychotic Norman Bates in front of a hundred people, he would not, even in jest, come after his family with a knife.

Yeah, my dad, he's a pretty cool dude.

If anyone ever wonders where I got my strong sense of family and insane sense of humor from... look no further than this guy:

 

He can also be held liable for my uncommonly strong love for caffeine, the Twilight Zone, and A Confederacy of Dunces. He's a man of many fine tastes if I do say so myself.

Bug's Life

*If you are my husband, please stop reading now*

Okay, now that Chris is gone, I got a little story for you. As Carolena would say...
Once upon a time, long long ago, there was a viking girl. That girl was me!
And that is where our tale begins. Years ago when Chris and I got married and moved into our first apartment I was set on getting some houseplants. "They are so cozy!" I said. "Nope, they'll bring bugs" Chris would reply. "It will add some homeiness to our apartment!" I would argue. "Please don't get houseplants" he would say, "they'll have bugs."

This back and forth went on for years. I would talk about bringing some beautiful plants into our apartment, and Chris would offer to plant something new into an outdoor pot. I would gaze at the indoor plants in Home Depot and Chris would beg me not to get one, all the while concerned about the amount of bugs that would thrive in its soil.

A few years ago a friend invited me to a girls' get together to have dinner, play games, and do a gift exchange. After some swapping of gifts I arrived home with a beautiful potted croton, and much in the style of the father in A Christmas Story, I placed it front and center upon our kitchen counter. We've had that plant there for a few years now. It's grown and been repotted and will soon outgrow it's current location. Perhaps when Nils gets over his "eating cat food and anything that looks enticing" phase I will move it to the floor. But for now, it still resides above our kitchen sink.

A few weeks ago I placed a jar of honey near the sink after rinsing off its ever sticky sides. Later, I noticed what appeared to be an entire colony of sugar ants feasting upon my honey. Our kitchen is no stranger to these sugar loving munchkins so I followed their trail... right into my plant.

oops.

Hard-hearted Harbinger of Haggis

I've been trying to figure out how to incorporate some Scottish heritage into our household, and Christmas seems like such an easy time to bring in the traditions of our forefathers. Julekake on Christmas morning and a string of Christmas heart baskets across the tree have always been staples for my God Jul. So, I thought this might be a great time of year to celebrate our Duncan name and find some good Scotish traditions to incorporate into our home.

The problem is... the only thing I can think of is to serve haggis. And the problem with haggis, of course, is that it's not boudain. 

Perhaps we'll just start buying some Clan Duncan Tartan items instead and Carolena can keep pretending to be Merida.

A quick Google search for "Scotish Christmas traditions" led me to a page that mentioned the term "rowdy celebration" so I guess our Duncan Clan already does incorporate my husband's and children's Scottish heritage into our Christmas! Done and done.

Harriet: "Do you actually like haggis?"

Charlie: "No, I think it's repellent in every way. In fact, I think most Scottish cuisine is based on a dare."

When Life Lobs Citrus

As the old saying goes, when life hands you lemons, make lemonade.

Well, life lobbed a few grapefruits at our heads in the last six months. So much for gently handing out lemons, eh?

It's been a rough couple of months in our household, but somehow Thanksgiving marks a turning point. It might be an arbitrary turning point, but we'll take it nonetheless. We're focused on giving thanks rather than crying or biting people's heads off (okay, okay, so Carolena and I are the ones who do those two things around here more than anyone).

We have so much for which we give thanks and I choose to focus on those things. Two beautiful children, good health all around (praise God), and more comforts in life than many can even dream of. Friends and family to love and be loved by, a pantry stuffed with food, an incredible church, food, toilet paper, running water... and love love love.

I say, when life starts throwing citrus, buy rum and share it with the ones you love.

In Sickness and In Health

Last week was perhaps on of the most worrisome and stressful times of Chris' life. Being the good wife that I am, I had his favorite meal on the table, a clean home, a glass of scotch, and two sparkling children waiting for him when he arrived home each evening.

Wait. No, that's not right.

I was the wife who in the course of a week pulled a back muscle, got a migraine so horrible that I literally couldn't get out of bed until noon one day, gave up caffeine cold turkey, and then caught (Caught? Is that the right word?) an infection that is so insanely painful which then resulted in flu like symptoms. So basically, Chris came home to a hunched over troll woman who could barely get out of bed every single day.

And that's just one of the reasons he had to vow for better or for worse.

Now let's get to the "for richer" part already.

Things the Book Won't Tell You

There are a million books out there on potty training. I'm sure they are all full of useful information like reminding parents about patience and rewarding good behavior and blah blah blah. Here is what the books will fail to tell you:

Potty training is a nightmare. A big poopy urine smelling nightmare.

Your child will relieve herself where ever she damn well pleases and then may or may not tell you where it was that she peed. You will only later discover these spots around the house when you do things like innocently lie down on the carpet in order to watch some tv. You'll tuck in the kiddos, grab a snack, and settle down for Shark Tank, when *WHAM!* just like that you're breathing in the sickly smell of someone else's day old urine soaked into the carpet.

Your child will lie.
They will lie all of the time.
"Why are your pants wet?" you'll ask. To which she'll reply, "I don't know."
"Did you teetee in them?" you'll prompt. "No" she'll insist.
She will then throw a huge screaming in your face trying to rip your eyes out of their sockets type tantrum insisting that her pants are just wet for no reason.

Your kid will poop in her pants on purpose.
Is it because she likes to? Is it because she knows it annoys you? Is it one small step in her giant harebrained scheme to slowly drive you insane?
Your kid will poop in her pants on purpose and then laugh about it. She'll tell you, "I think it's funny."

It is decidedly not funny.

The books won't tell you that your bathroom will start to resemble a men's convenience store restroom. No matter how many Clorox wipes you buy, you will feel like Britney Spears that time she walked barefoot into the gas station bathroom each and every time you go into yours.

So, there you have it. Happy toilet training! From our house to yours: good luck suckers!

Happy Mothers' Day

Last week my mother came to town to help us out during what was admittedly a stressful week. My mom watched our kiddos, helped with the laundry, and I even found one of Carolena's costumes was mended. She endured the sleepless nights that we have come to know as life. She ate leftovers with us and graciously took Carolena to school so that I could take a nap.

And then on Thursday she went to my sisters house 45 minutes across Houston where she did more of the same and watched as everyone in that household succumbed to a stomach bug on Friday morning.

That's when I called her, barely able to speak, and mumbled into the phone something like, "migraine. can't get out of bed. help." and she returned to my house.

Saturday morning she awoke to a small child sticking two fingers in her face and announcing, "I pooped." There was indeed poop. There was poop on her fingers, poop in her nighttime diaper, poop on her bedding. I am not sure if a monkey snuck into Carolena's room that night or not but there was even poop on the wall.

You can still see the tire marks my mom's jeep left as she took her full cup of coffee and sped away to the beach.

Lucky.

These are the events that led to Kelly and me on the phone last night talking about Sir Ernest Shackleton (because, duh, how can you ever not talk about him) and about how both of us realized this week that motherhood is never ending. My mom might not change our diapers anymore, but she still endures our sicknesses, our tears, and even our tantrums. Perhaps we should have reconsidered taking my mom to a college bar (Fitzwilly's) for mother's day one year.

Mom, next time you come to town I will serve you wine and cheese. We can find some time to watch chick flicks. We'll eat popcorn and escape to Goodwill. And I promise to not be the one to wake you up with poop on my fingers.

Well, at least not my own poop.

Always Look on the Bright Side of Life

Always look on the bright side of life... do do do do do do do
Always look on the light side of life...

There are times in life when the Chris Hadfield perspective is the way to go. Last week in Kroger artichokes were in the markdown bin. Two for a dollar... what?! I bought all of them (six) and ate two by myself as an appetizer that night. Win! I ate the last four the next night. Yes, four. Win! The Redbox gave me two free movies the same day. Win! We had pizza for dinner. Win! I watched a Christian Bale movie (American Hustle. Bales still got it.*) and drank wine while working on arts and crafts. Win! I didn't spill any of my red wine on the white project I was working on. Major Win!

*In my mind I'm yelling, "Bales still got it!" in the same vein as when Buster yells, "Mom's still got it!" on Arrested Development. hahha... I love that guy.


I've always been a strong supporter of the Chris Hadfield outlook on life.

So, for today:
When my mom mentioned that the smell we've been obsessing over smelled like "The Treasure House" we finally decided it has to be human urine (Carolena.... we're looking at you on this one babe). Chris steamed the carpet and a company is coming to clean our furniture and stain guard it today. Win!...?

Nils slept all night the last two nights (errr... rather... none of us went to soothe him). So, win!

It's 930 in the morning and so far caffeine weening is going well. Win! Yes, it's early, but we're taking the wins where we can get them around here.

This fall has been nuts. I'm dubbing today "reboot day." The furniture is getting cleaned, the huge pile of stuff to get rid of that is threatening to take over my room is getting shipped out of the house. We're rebooting around here. Win.

Nuggets from Nils

Nuggets from Nils
By Nils Morgan

Mommy is serving pizza for dinner?! It's your lucky day! Cram as much as that manna from heaven into your mouth as humanly possible. Your mouth is already full? Grab a piece and work to stuff it in there. Mommy will frown and say things like, "Nils, chew what's in your mouth" and other moronic phrases like that. Geeze, what do mothers know about pizza? Look down upon your tray like you are in a smart restaurant and it is the lobster pond. Carefully select another piece and gently pick it up between your fingers like the delicacy it is. Bring it up near your face, give your mother a wide pizza-filled grin, and then do your most impressive adorable dance as you sneak that next piece of pizza in there.

Speaking of delicacies, have you ever tried cat food? Or those cat scratching boxes? Mmmmmmmm boy. "If God dwells inside us, like some people say, I sure hope He likes catnip and cardboard, because that's what He's getting!"

If you go to Kroger chances are your mother will let you ride in one of the kids' car shopping carts. Woo!! Driving! Driving! Driving! When your big sister gets in next to you snuggle right into her. She will probably start screaming, "Nils is touching me!" at the top of her lungs and your mother will intervene. You'll get scooted over a tad, your sister will be reminded that it is okay for "they baby to touch her," and the cart car will start driving again. Wait just the right amount of time. You'll know when it's the right moment to do it again. Suggestions include but are not limited to the moment your mother picks up a gallon of milk in each hand or when the cart is stopped on an aisle of glass jars. When it's your moment, pounce on your sister again! Smother her with head snuggles and kisses. She'll freak out and jump out of the car. She'll insist on riding alone in the boring grocery basket part of the cart. The car will be all yours. Sweet success. Stretch your legs out across the seat and enjoy the ride.

Tidings of Comfort and Joy

A few years ago when I was pregnant with my firstborn I found myself on the phone with my sister, complaining about all of the annoying things people say to pregnant women. "You look so big!" Wrong. "You look so small!" Wrong. "Any day now?" Wrong. No matter what anyone said, unless it was "You look fabulous," it was the wrong thing to say.

After listening sympathetically to my woes Kelly responded, "Casey, people just want to be a part of a miracle."

And my head exploded.

She was right. No one knows what to say to a pregnant woman (except me: just tell them they look good and then shut your mouth). Everyone flounders and says stupid things. People reach out to touch their bellies. Everyone just wants to be a part of the miracle.

We say that the Episcopal Church welcomes you. What we don't mention is the caveat: the Episcopal Church welcomes you... until you start celebrating Christmas earlier than we have deemed appropriate and then people start to lose their shit.

Until recently, I would watch my neighbors string up their lights in mid-November and shake my head, "It isn't even Thanksgiving yet!" I would hear the carols playing in stores and roll my eyes, "Ugh, don't people observe Advent?!"

Last week we were driving home and passed a few houses decked out for Christmas. I inwardly cringed, but then I heard Kelly's voice echo in my head (how does she DO that?!), "Casey, people just want to be a part of a miracle."

People just want to be a part of a miracle.

People just want to be a part of a miracle and they are looking for it in the wrong places. Each year we put up more decorations and bake more cookies. We turn on the Christmas music a little earlier and watch just a few more Christmas movies. Those things are fabulous, and certainly fun, but do not in and of themselves bring us to the miracle of the incarnation.

One of the overlooked aspects of Christmas is that the Church stole a lot of our Christmas traditions from others. Sure, the incarnation part is significant to say the least and wholly ours, but the huge winter party complete with tree trimming - that was originally pure paganism. No one even knows when Christ was born. We took some traditions from "the world" and work to make them holy. It's kind of our thing.

So why do we get so worked up when people start celebrating too early? People just want to be a part of a miracle. Plus, get ready... not all churches observe Advent. Gasp! Perhaps, instead of blasting them on Facebook and shouting about how it isn't Christmas yet, we should offer them grace. Perhaps we should stop worrying about the world stealing our Christmas celebration (much of which we conveniently forget has always belonged the world) and instead work to make this time holy. Why don't we work to celebrate Advent and Christmas in such a way that people look at us and know that there is something more going on then just a big winter celebration?

It is easy to point out the problems with modern Christmas. It is difficult to find solutions. Nonetheless, here is what I propose:

• This year, let's focus on holiness. Instead of being annoyed with others and the frantic Christmas present buying and all of the excess, let's focus on silent nights. Holy nights.
• This year, let's forget about that damn Elf on the Shelf. Everyone knows that Santa does in fact bring presents to the "bad kids" - let's stop the b.s. on that one and instead teach our children the truth: Santa brings presents to everyone because all kids are actually good kids.
• This year, let's not worry about what others are doing during Advent. Put up your tree, sing Christmas carols, do all that jazz in December. But then... celebrate Christmas. Celebrate the twelve days of Christmas (they start on Christmas Day!) with acts of love and charity. Christmas is so much more than celebrating Jesus' birthday. It is celebrating incarnation, the moment when the Creator stepped into his creation. We are an incarnational people. Let's celebrate Christmas by being just that. 

My plan for our family to celebrate Christmas this year is to set aside the 12 days of Christmas as days to reach out to others in love and charity. Days to focus on being incarnational people. I plan for us to have projects for each of the days of Christmas to make it a time that is holy. Cookies for the garbage truck driver, food for the food bank, bird seed scattered to the birds, each day we'll find a way to bring peace, comfort, and joy to the world during this season.

This year when I see people celebrating Christmas "too early" or in ways that I think to be shallow or irreverent, I will remember that people just want to be a part of a miracle. People just want to be a part of the miracle, so let's shower them with tidings of comfort and joy.

Coffee or Wine? A Mom’s Guide to Drinking on the Job

Situation One: That Smell 

You come home to a smell. A smell. A smell that can only mean there is a dirty diaper shoved under the couch, raw meat forgotten in a grocery bag, or possibly a dead racoon in your bed.

-          You find the source of the smell.

o   It’s alive.

§  Drink caffeine. Start the percolator and look up the number of an exterminator. Grab the kids, grab your coffee, and hide from the smelly thing living in your house.

o   It’s not alive.

§  Throw it away… preferably in the neighbor’s trashcan when they aren’t looking. Then Febreeze the hell out of your couch and reward yourself by lying down with a glass of wine.

-          You can’t find the source of the smell.

o   Ah! Where the hell is it coming from?! Empty all of the trashcans and scoop the litterbox. Then, give up, light some pumpkin spice candles, and open a bottle of wine.  

Situation Two: Feminine Mystique  

You suddenly realize it’s been an insanely unacceptable number of days since you last bathed. You glance in the mirror and notice that your hair is now made up with what appears to be an accumulation of baby spit up, oatmeal, and... is that last night's dental floss??

-          It’s 10 am

o   Remove floss, put on a hat, choose coffee.

-          It’s 10 pm

o   Bubble bath with wine and a good book. STAT.

Situation Three: Who needs sleep?

The baby is supposed to be sleeping. She has a full tummy, a clean diaper, and has been sung to and snuggled and rocked. All of these things are true and she is still screaming. There appears to be nothing wrong and you are at your wit's end.

-     It’s bedtime 

      o   Place the baby in the crib, tell her you love her, and leave. She won’t hurt himself crying. Turn up some jazz music, go to the other side of your house, and open a bottle of wine. Check on the baby in a little while.

-      It’s naptime.

o   Damn girl. That sucks. It's going to be a long day. Coffee. Choose strong coffee.

Situation Four: The Cement Mixer

You forgot the golden rule of kitchen cleanup and allowed oatmeal to dry on your floor, chair, table, and ceiling.

-          It’s 10 am

o   Start the coffee. And you might as well heat up some water while you're at it. You'll need some scalding hot water to tackle that shit.

-          It’s 10 pm

o   Grab a bottle of wine and turn off the kitchen light. Let tomorrow deal with tomorrow. That's Gospel. Err... kind of.

Situation Five: It’s a Bird! It’s a Plane! It’s Supermom!

You had a perfect put-Mary-Poppins-to-shame kind of day. No tears were shed, no diapers were blowouts, all food eaten was healthy. No one threw a tantrum, you went grocery shopping and made dinner. Kids went to bed easily and on time. There was not one mishap or Plan B needed.

-          This really happened.

o   Congratulations! You are a world class bullshitter. You even convinced yourself! Reward yourself for being such a great liar by opening a bottle of wine. Unless of course you’ve been drinking wine already, which would explain your ability to believe this actually happened, in which case... perhaps brew some coffee.

               -           This didn’t really happen.

o   Yep, that sounds about right. Find something single malt. Or rum. Even Mary Poppins got some rum punch at the end of the day. It was the rum that kept her from completely losing her shit.

The Cat Came Back... He Just Wouldn't Stay Away

The other day Chris and I were standing at our respective sinks brushing our teeth while the kids hung around in our bathroom. Chris began telling me about an NPR story he heard recently about research showing that over enough time house cats actually do eventually drive people insane. I continued brushing my teeth while staring blankly into the mirror before me.
"Yes," I replied, "I am familiar with that."
"You heard that on NPR too?"
"No."

It all began way back... such a long long time back...
When Chris and I got married Max was not thrilled. In fact, one might say that he was pissed. That certainly seemed to be the case when it came to anything of mine left around that he could urinate on. So, we purchased bottle after bottle of hydrogen peroxide and, for a short time at least, I got better about not leaving things around for him to pee on.

One day soon after that I came home to find my cell phone cord had been chewed to bits. I thought only dogs did stuff like that. Clearly, Max felt I was infringing upon what had once been his raging bachelor pad. Eventually, after many afternoon naps together, Max came to accept that I wasn't going anywhere.

And then we brought home Olive.

"Yes," I replied, "I am familiar with that."

Our cats are slowly (or not so slowly?) driving me insane. There is always a phantom smell of cat pee (where is it?!), shredded door frames, and the constant threat of being suffocated by cat hair. These things alone, I can live with. But the cats realized that wasn't enough, so they've upped their game.

Olive has taken to walking s-l-o-w-l-y in front of me everywhere I go, darting and dashing when needed to stay just in front of me. "What? The baby is crying? Follow me!" cries Olive as she walks at a snail's pace lacing her body through my legs as I attempt to get to Nils. She employs this tactic anytime I head toward our bathroom too. Olive, like my children, believes that I should not be allowed to go into the bathroom alone.

Max concentrates his new efforts on ensuring sleepless nights. Just when Nils has settled down I feel the weight of daggers bearing a 20lb cat walking up and down my body. Max walks around on me periodically during the night preferring to then settle down in such a way as to take up my entire bottom half of the bed. He sleeps a little while until his internal alarm clock alerts him to the fact that it is time to jab me in the throat with a paw or lick me repeatedly.

"Yes," I replied, "I am familiar with that."
"You heard that on NPR too?"
"No," I said as I brushed my teeth and watched Olive's cat hair blow across the room like a tumble weed while she wrapped herself around my legs and Max sat crying next to a full food bowl. The smell of the cat box filled the air of our bathroom, just as it always does. I continued brushing my teeth, staring into the mirror before me. My skin was pale. My hair was wild. My stare was blank. My mouth was foaming with toothpaste.
"Yes," I replied, "I am familiar with that."
"You heard that on NPR too?"
"No, I'm living it."

Boo Hoo... and... Moo

Carolena's school is collecting canned goods for a local food bank. She came home with a note from the teacher asking for each kid to bring something to add to the bin during chapel. So, I took my little Carolena grocery shopping for the food bank. This should not have been new to her as we have a collection bin at church that we add to, but, nonetheless, this was the particular day that it hit home to Carolena that she had no idea what was going on.

"Why?"

I am asked that question 50,000 times a day. "Why?" she asked as we choose our items. As I began the process of once again explaining the food bank to a three year old I was suddenly over come with the beauty of it all.

"Well," I replied, "we have enough food in our house right now and we have enough money to buy some more. We are going to pick out some things that we think other people might like... oatmeal, salt, seasonings, muffin mixes... then you can bring them to the donation bin. Someone will come pick up all of the food and bring it to a really big pantry. All of the food will get sorted onto the shelves. Then, if someone finds that they need more food in their house and they don't have enough money to buy some right then, they can go to the food bank and pick out things that they would like to bring home for their family to eat. When we share then everyone has enough."

And then, as per the usual, I teared up (I'm 10 months postpartum, give me a break).

Later that same week a newsletter from the Mother's Milk Bank, an organization I love greatly, arrived in the mail.

"When we share then everyone has enough."

These words ran through my head once more as I read about a few of the infants who are current recipients of the milk bank and the good work that the staff there is doing. And I wept once more.

When we share then everyone has enough.

Heredity

Nils Morgan 2014

 Carolena Michele 2012

Casey Carolena 1984

As Carolena would say, "Yep. That's how we do it."

W.O.W.

Words of Wisdom
By Carolena

Every time Mommy asks you to tell someone "your news" scream out as loud as you can, "I poop on the potty now!" All of the adults will suppress giggles and commend you on your accomplishment. Mommy will probably remind you of some other boring more current "news" that she expected you to share. Hmph. Mommies. What do they know about news?

Poop on the potty. But poop in your panties as often as you feel like it. Mommy will wash them anyway, and it's good to keep her on her toes.

Sometimes, just every so often, push your younger sibling down. Wait until the prime moment when he is crawling or cruising by and then BAM! knock that guy over. Send him rolling. Do this just often enough to remind everyone of who the real boss is around here.

W.O.W.

Words of Wisdom
By Carolena

Moms prefer to start the day by jumping out of bed in a panic. It really helps to get their blood flowing. Screeching "There's a lizard on my pillow!" or climbing on top of Mommy while she's still snoozing to announce, "there's blood on my finger" are two great ways to help your mom start her day on the right foot.
*Mommy note: There was in fact an anole on her pillow. The blood turned out to be a booger. Awesome.

If you need something done by an adult order Mommy to do it. "Open this for me," "Give me that," and "Wipe my hiney" are great examples of how to speak to moms. Mommy will probably respond with some asinine comment about how she can't hear you when you speak like that. She will insist that she can only hear and respond accordingly to things asked politely. She wants you to say things like "Mommy, will you please open this for me?" I think deep down Mommy actually believes she will win out on this and that eventually she won't be bossed around by her children. Mommy thinks that someday her persistence will be rewarded with you asking politely the first time instead of demanding what is rightfully yours! Aw, isn't that cute?

Mommies like to multitask. For instance, if Mommy is nursing the baby that is a great time to bring her your shoes and socks. Even though you know how to put them on by yourself, throw a tantrum and insist that Mommy do it for you. Ugh, it's not like she's actually having to do anything while the baby is eating. When Mommy is tying your shoes and the baby is distractedly eating while watching you get dressed you'll know that's the prime moment to tell her you need help to go to the bathroom.

Clergy Spouse Confessions

Most Sundays I've got the single parent in church thing down. Aunt Panasonic babysits Carolena while I get ready to leave the house. Carolena and I go to Sunday School and Nils happily plays in the nursery. We all manage to sit mostly quiet in our second from the front pew and there is usually only limited calling out "Daddy!" And, honestly, it reaaalllly helps that I have my "church wife" in the pew next to me each week.

But in honor of yesterday...

When you see me on a Sunday morning and I'm wearing a dark shirt with a hole directly over my light colored bra, it's because I didn't notice until arriving at church.

And because some days there isn't enough coffee to get us all out of the house on time and everyone well dressed in clothes that don't have mystery holes that seem to appear right when we get there. There just isn't enough coffee in the world.

When you see me on a Sunday morning and I'm ignoring my children as they crawl all over the back of the church and the three of us take up more than one entire pew and we have toys and books and cracker crumbs everywhere, it's because we are at church all of the time. In fact this might be our third time at church in as many days. We are insanely comfortable in God's house.

And some days I am just surviving.

When my children are giggling and making happy noises (or loud grunting noises as the case may be... Nils we're looking at you buddy...) and you glance over and I seem to not even notice the ruckus my family is making, know that I do notice. I just don't care. At least they aren't fighting or crying. You might mind the noise. I know I have in the past. But in present day I'm just thankful that I'm in the pew (or wandering around somewhere near it chasing a busy crawler). I'm thankful that we're there and I have to leave it at that.

When you see me on a Sunday morning and I am holding a 30lb baby on one hip, have a huge bag overflowing with toys on the other arm, and a three year old clinging to my leg (or running full speed ahead for the donuts), don't wonder why I look frazzled and tired. Please don't ask me a question about what time something starts or what the youth group might be doing at their next meeting. I don't know the answer. I never do.

When you see me on a Sunday morning and I seem distracted or tired or frazzled... it's because I am.

But we're there.

There was a time when I sat in the pews and enjoyed the quiet before the service. There was a time when I knelt during the confession, stood during the creed, and faced the gospel procession. I'd like to say there was a time when I arrived at church in a shirt without a hole but that's pushing it a bit too far, don't you think? It's supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.

Now my worship looks different. It takes the form of holding children and rocking babies. I worship standing more often than not because kneeling with a 10 month old is not feasible. I sing about half of each song but the half that I get to sing is sung loudly and joyfully... and my little grunting Nils sings along. The other half is spent wrangling cats my children and praying that none of us have to use the bathroom. The three of us in one stall is more than I can handle some days. I stand for the Eucharistic Prayer. The choices offered in the BCP are to kneel in penitence or stand in the joy of the Resurrection. At this point in my life, I choose joy. So I stand.

I realize that my kids and I are incredibly distracting in church. But, I'm doing the best I can. My worship is that we are there. Nils might not have shoes that fit, Carolena may have crazily ripped out her hairbraid in the middle of the service, and my shirt might have an unsightly hole... but we're there. My worship these days is about presence. When I say to Carolena, "It's Sunday. What do we do on Sundays?" and her resounding happy answer is to cheer, "church!" I know that our sometimes chaotic loud disruptive worship is in fact holy.