Will of God

May the most just, most high, and most amiable will of God be done in all things; may it be praised and magnified forever.

(Pius VII, May 19, 1818.)

I would always rather be happy than dignified.
--Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre

If I Should Learn

If I should learn, in some quite casual way,
That you were gone, not to return again --
Read from the back-page of a paper, say,
Held by a neighbor in a subway train,
How at the corner of this avenue
And such a street (so are the papers filled)
A hurrying man, who happened to be you,
At noon today had happened to be killed --
I should not cry aloud -- I could not cry
Aloud, or wring my hands in such a place --
I should but watch the station lights rush by
With a more careful interest on my face;
Or raise my eyes and read with greater care
Where to store furs and how to treat the hair.
--Edna St. Vincent Millay

No Potty

Moms and Their Daughters, Then and Now

Matching Bikinis

Anybody Doesn't Want Me! (and Rhubarb Muffins)

It is the oddest thing -- when Emilia started pre-school this past year she cried and cried, and I cried and cried and cried, too.  She cried because she was nervous, scared, excited, and had never been away from me before (apart from three or so brief times with a babysitter).  I cried because I knew things would never ever be the same again.  (Yes, I sound melodramatic, but you'll just have to deal with it.)  Anyway, I knew that once Emilia started school, she would love it -- and, eventually, she would stay longer and longer and, egads, go five days a week (as opposed to the two and a half hour/two days a week that she did this past year).  And then one day she would move out of the house and get married and all that.  And to be perfectly honest, it was hard for me to take when I looked at her little self.

So how on earth did we both go from crying when school started to nearly sobbing when school ended?  Emilia loves school -- she is incredibly social and loves her little friends.  And it has been amazing watching her blossom the way that she has.  It has also been amazing to have those few short hours each week to spend with Leo and to go running.  Our schedule was this: drop the girl off, drive home as fast as we could, hop in the house, change into a variety of spandex and lycra, feed Leo lunch (usually a yogurt while we both sat on the kitchen floor), plonk him in the jogger, load him up with blankets and/or the handy-dandy rain shield, and get moving -- my i-pod (blasting some of the worst music ever created) and a few intermittent shouts to Leo, 'You doing alright, baby?', to which he always responds, 'Uh, yeah!' -- then back to school to pick up the girl as fast as we could.  And there you go -- our Tuesday and Thursday afternoons of yore. 

And now it is gone!  (sniff sniff)  Even Emilia voiced concern a week or so before school ended, 'Mama, what ARE you going to do about your running?'  The problem has been solved, though.  It is called waking up at an unnatural hour and going before Michael leaves for work and before kids are out of bed.  Oddly, this has been working just fine.  I have been very happy being outside and all by myself for awhile.  I am never all by myself.  In fact, Emilia just made a sign and put it on the door of the bathroom to remind her that it really is best to just let someone be in the bathroom by themselves, for pete's sake -- this includes her: 'I'm taking privacy!'

On Rhubarb

We were wandering around the opening day of our local farmers' market last week when I noticed a booth with a few scraggly pieces of organic rhubarb poking out of a basket.  So, naturally, we practically mowed the little old lady in front of us over to get to it, before she got wise and tried to get it herself.  We bought  nine sticks in all, but only after trying to convince Emilia that it wasn't quite the dubious proposition she was envisioning it to be.  And this was no easy feat as I had never actually had rhubarb before -- and had always viewed it as having a rather suspicious (not to mention celeriac) nature.  In fact, every time I think of it to this day, I envision walking home from school as a kid and trampling all over the wild rhubarb that grew over parts of the sidewalk.  (Apparently it is quite a hardy plant...)   

And so, that very night, wanting to make haste with our freshly harvested rhubarb, and not having even a little bit of energy or desire to make a pie, I settled on Rhubarb Fool.  Also, never having had any sort of fool before, I thought it looked divine and easy to make.  So there you go.  After dinner that night, kids in bed, Michael and I plopped down on the cold couch in the living room and had ourselves some rhubarb fool.  I very nearly hurled.  It was awful, and atrocious, and really really really not good. 

Happy St. Rita's Day

Offer up your lost and hopeless causes! 

It would appear I have a very very very busy day ahead of me.

Sunshine