Updated to Add: It just occurred to me that this title sounds like a reference to Thanksgiving. It’s not! I can’t even think about Thanksgiving until we’re finished with these two birthdays.
Lawda mercy, but it’s true.
Here we go again.
Yesterday was my daughter Cate’s 10th birthday.
Today we celebrate Felicity’s 8th.
It’s crazy, it’s busy, it’s crazy-busy. I grit my teeth and hang on for the ride.
You know, though, and this is not to be uber-pious or anything, I am seeing that Mary has it all in hand. I was stressed—stressed, I tell you!—about how I could possibly get everything done. Cate was in Sleeping Beauty this weekend (a lowly trumpeter, but she really shone 😉 and I needed her to be at the performance by 12 noon yesterday.
Two hours early, ‘cause that’s how it goes.
I fretted and fretted over the Mass we’d attend because it is hard—so hard!—to make it to our church by 9:00. That was the option if we were to attend Holy Family, because the 11:00 a.m. Mass would get us to the performance too late.
Suddenly—and this was a leap for me—I thought outside the box. (So unlike me to think outside the box, which is why I’m thanking Mary.) Why not see if there’s a Mass in the vicinity? Granted, it’s an unfamiliar suburb…in the hinterlands of the Cities, as it were…
Why not? I googled “Catholic Churches in ‘This’ Suburb…”
And I found one.
A church named after the feast that it was: The Presentation of Mary, on my daughter’s special day.
Very cool, no?
And the rector was a priest that I knew—a wonderful priest that had baptized Jem and that I hadn’t seen for ten whole years.
Take away that photographer’s license!
So things are falling into place. Hooray! We are celebrating three days in a row because tomorrow is when our guests can come and so that’s when we’ll have the cake & party.
If I go AWOL you know why.
Meanwhile, I’ll tell you what happened at breakfast this morning, because it was Very Humbling and caused me Grave Concern. We were eating our birthday breakfast of choice (see above photo) when Felicity wrinkled her nose and announced:
“I smell dog food.”
We don’t own a dog, as perhaps you know. (Sigh.)
“I do, too!” Jem was quick to chime in. “It’s not dog food, though. It smells like Greta!”
Owning a guinea pig is one thing. But being told that your home smells like a guinea pig? That is grounds for going back to Mom School.
My eyebrows wrinkled up in concern but then—to my relief!—I recognized the source of the offensive smell. It was…
The wild rice boiling on the stove.
The rice for the soup that Cate requested for her birthday meal.
(Have you ever smelled wild rice as it’s cooking?)
(Well then, now you know.)