The Lion Sleeps Tonight (And Other Infant Tales)

This week, I made the decision: I was going to go to confession.

I have not been since a few weeks before Grace was born, and was looking forward to the soul-cleansing; the more I've been physically healing from child-birth, the more I've been aching for confession. I made the decision to go. I planned out my day accordingly. We cleaned up the apartment, had friends stop by, ate meals, watched a few more Poirot episodes (my current indulgence), tried to nap with Grace, and went to the grocery store for the week.

We got back and put the food away. I popped Grace into her car seat and off we drove to the church, just in time for communion. Whoops. We were an hour late to confession.

Yet, I still served my penance (partly). Grace cried - nay, wailed - the whole drive over. And tonight, Miss Fussykins was not wholly satisfied with the service provided her. I held her and carried her and fed her. Will changed her and walked her and bounced her. We swaddled her and repeatedly stuck the binky in her sweet mouth and cooed love. I can successfully type that she is now asleep and the article I've been working on the past two days is still not complete.

Oh well. The every day can feel like a hamster wheel, or insignificant when you write out your to-do list and dutifully check the boxes. That all changed for me the day I had Grace. And I'm okay with that.

I used to think writing was my calling, and perhaps it still is. But I've lost a certain joy (and, truly, all sense of what "deadline" means in the world outside) and I'm working on re-claiming my love of words. Grace is breaking me in a completely different way than ideas ever could- grasping my heart and soul, making me re-evaluate how I'm living every day to make sure I'll be the best mother for her. For all that Will is and how he makes me want to be the best possible woman and wife, Grace is round two in my personal sanctification.

St. Vincent Ferrar said, "Whatever you do, think not of yourself, but of God." I certainly think of God when I'm stressed and feel like the maid ("I just cleaned up this mess!"). I try to say my morning and mass prayers with Grace, and evening prayers with Will. I am patient with Grace's crying as I know God is so, so, so, so patient with me - comforting and loving - even if she (and I) have to cry it out a bit before seeing reason (or the binky). And yes, I get frustrated and absent-minded too.

But what is life otherwise? How else can we seek God if we are not constantly feeling the need to fall on our knees in thanksgiving or contrition? What say you, dear reader?

Fine, I wish I had not been late to confession and finished my article. But I'm enjoying baby snuggles and a husband who makes me laugh and shows me all the good, and the small, mundane blessings that don't deserve their own blog post. Like sleep. Which I am in desperate need for more, so au revoir! Until my next ramble, ramble, ramble.