Originally I thought this might be a weekly thing, but I kind of like the randomness of dropping it on you guys here and there. So, this week’s edition brought to you by one grumpy post-op 4 year old (ear tubes in, adenoids out), a hotter than hell mid July in the Mile High city, and the general malaise of late-but-not-yet-late-enough-to-be-excited pregnancy.
All the excuses, be mine.
1. I found this piece really consoling and convicting and, oddly, hopeful. It’s about how pride really is the deadliest sin and it lists out some subtle ways it can manifest.
2. I know you’re sick of hearing the rants about Planned Parenthood, but I feel a moral obligation to keep the indignation stoked, at least in my own apathetic heart. Here’s Cici Richard’s best efforts at the nopology, basically excusing the good doctor captured munching kale and talking fetal dismemberment for using “inappropriate” language. Also, gush gush gush, lie, redirect, and finally, “we do mammograms, you know” (no, they don’t.)
4. I always love reading Grace’s birth stories, but this one takes the cake if only because she handily included a template which I can print off and laminate for my own delivery-room comfort. Oddly enough, I found myself googling “drug-free births after epidurals” for a good hour yesterday afternoon, either because I’m crazy or I’m fearing a precipitous 4th delivery. Option a is much more likely than option b, especially given my track record of 19 hours, 12 hours, 28 hours. I might as well resign myself to the lucky chronological lottery (aka Divine Providence) that landed me smack in the 21st century, since I fancy myself a likely candidate for death-by-childbirth. Drugs it is.