This past weekend saw lots of couch lying and bath-soaking on my part, with sprinklings of football and pumpkin carving. Pretty much the perfect recipe for fall, except that I spent most of it lying down watching from the sidelines.
This has been the easiest pregnancy so far, hands down, except for this past week, during which it has become painfully (ha) clear that I’m overdoing it, over extended, and over committed. When I realized sometime around 4 pm Friday that I can no longer comfortably carry either boy for longer than 15 seconds, it occurred to me that I’d better embrace this newfound infirmity before it progresses because 7 weeks is a looooong time for mommy to be out of commission.
After a glorious trip to the chiropractor this morning and lots of ‘no’s’ to stuff I would otherwise have loved to accomplish over the weekend, I’m feeling less like I’ve been in a crippling car accident and more like I’m just 8 months pregnant. For the third time in four years. I always forget this part at the end where the gym doesn’t soothe what ails me, but rather seems to inflame what aches me. Still, I am committed to the socialization of my pre-schoolers 90 glorious and child free minutes each afternoon between me and HGTV, so I’ll probably keep going if only to creep along on a treadmill to the sound of bad pop music while my offspring learn important life lessons like how many consecutive loops of Cars can they rack up before the movie gets switched to some other animated masterpiece, and how many kids there are in the world named Hadley/Peyton/Hunter whose gender is a mystery revealed only by the sparkles on their footwear. Or lack thereof.
We’ve been doing lots of crafty things like shoving pipe cleaners in colanders, cutting newspapers into shreds with safety scissors, and gluing pieces of paper to other pieces of paper. Oh, and making lots and lots of buntings. To hang in every room. Pretty much 110% stimulating for all parties involved.
Put a bunting on it.
One thing I am inordinately proud of is the slightly ghetto “Mass kit” I cobbled together via my favorite recycled retail establishment, which Joey has fallen deeply and profoundly in love with.
I give him water to make wine with (he’s a miraculous little chap) and rice crackers for hosts, and then he spreads his goods across the ‘altar’ of our coffee table and goes to town.
Old liturgy of the hours book (breviary?), Spanish silver(!) ‘chalices,’ World Market coasters-turned-patens, and some assorted glassware for purification purposes. And of course Target RE brand altar clothes and purificators. Only the finest in liturgical vesting in this house. Bananas optional.
He begs me to read parts of the Eucharistic prayers to him and then he parrots them back and let me tell you right now: hearing a 3 year old solemnly intone “take this bwead, Lord” is the best thing you’ve ever laid ears on.
Stripes, the other liturgical color.
He is still not super engaged at actual Mass, but boy does he love calling the shots from his mini sanctuary in the living room. (Lest any vocational predictions arise, he also spends about 60% of the time he’s ‘saying’ Mass talking about how he is going to be a daddy, so we’re thinking he’s got a Byzantine streak…)
Fr. Joseph and his faithful deacon, “Garry”
I’m trying to consciously choose what stays and what gives as we head into this most favorite of liturgical seasons (mine, anyway) and so far that looks like no gift-giving (aside from the bare minimum), no Christmas cards (in lieu of early January birth announcements), and a very limited social engagements calendar punctuated by the occasional dinner party, feast day celebration, baby shower and bridal shower. So far all my siblings and I have planned fall/winter weddings, which is both weird and fun, and that coupled with the 10 immediate family birthdays we have from September-January means crazy partying all yuletide long. So, let the games begin. I might be watching from the couch, and I might be planning to let my 3-year-old trick or treat in his Superman pajamas on Thursday night. In light snow. Lowered expectations, I’ve got ’em.