I say Yes a lot.  In fact, I think I’m hard-wired to tell certain people Yes

After hearing about Rocking the Cradle Catholic: Raising Little Saints in a Lukewarm World when Greg and Jennifer Willits interviewed author Mary Moore on The Catholics Next Door

It was the kind of day where I just wanted to go back to bed, and I wanted the kids to do the same.  All of us woke up on the wrong side of our beds, and we had things to do, places to go, people to see.

I have always hated the phrase “Everything happens for a reason.”  Not only does it feel like a cop-out to my rational mind, it seems to undermine whatever pain or tragedy it’s trying to address.

My two-year-old has discovered her independence.  She can feed the dog (and join the dog in chowing down), take off her clothes (and put them in the hamper)

I really wasn’t looking for another book on Mary, though, as a confirmed Mary geek and a book-a-holic, I have a certain weakness to great quotes and the promise of a good read.

I’m not known for my flexibility.  It’s not just that I’m neither athletic nor interested in becoming more so.  It’s that I want my world situated into a planner, complete with alphabetized lists and prioritized to-dos. 

Love starts at home.

Have you heard of the Fairy Tale Novels? If not, then let me pause in my jumping up and down long enough to catch my breath and tell you to run as fast as you can to get them.

On my refrigerator, I have a scrap piece of paper that’s been around for months, maybe as long as a year.  It started life near my coffeepot, then it moved to the window over my kitchen sink, then it was on my bathroom mirror for a while.

I’m not a naturally flexible person.

I’d like to be, though.  I have great intentions.  I’ll set myself up with resolutions and plans of action and set out to conquer my inflexibility.  I’ll steam along and talk big.

It was cold and clear.  I was pregnant-to-bursting, wearing a shiny red shirt that looked festive but wasn’t warm.

A local farm near us does a reenactment of the Christmas Story every year, loading folks up on wagons and driving them to different stations.

Eight or nine years ago I attended my first midnight Christmas Mass.  I was with my boyfriend, a guy who seemed too good to be true.

Maybe she can’t help it.  Maybe she watches, from her perch in perfection, and she just can’t stop herself from reaching down and even actually appearing.

As we approach a holy day that I inevitably forget about and fail to plan for, despite the fact that I am not only a convert (which is supposed to give me some sort of free pass to remembering these sorts of things, isn’t it?) and that I have worked ..read more

It’s not easy to admit, here in this highly Catholic space, to people who may or may not “really” know me, that just the other day, the phrase “I hate Christmas!” came out of my mouth.

I sat in the chair, one I hadn’t occupied for far too long, and enjoyed the feel of being pampered a bit.  Never mind that I hate having my hair straightened: this was adult conversation, and my hair was finally cut and styled.

In the last four years, I have come to a realization that I have a new favorite color.  Though I tend to like all the colors, favoring for scarlet and gray during football season, I feel almost guilty confessing that I’ve started to almost like the color pink.

I never have a problem finding my car in a parking lot, despite it being a popular make and model.  I have my four-year-old to thank for that.