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Tag: motherhood

Interrupted

Interrupted

I’ve been reading a few art / work process books in the past year, and they all advocate setting aside protected hours, in a designated office or studio space, so you can focus intently on the work before you, where you won’t be interrupted by menial tasks and requests. I’m afraid all of those books are written by men — who don’t do the stay-at-home-dad thing.

Joining the Lord’s Work

Joining the Lord’s Work

I’ve been spinning my wheels for a couple of months now. A year ago, I would have told you that I was pretty good at parenting, that while far from perfect, I had good theology and good practice and that, given our current path, I was likely to be successful. Today I will tell you that on most days my impatience, anger, discontent, irritation, and laziness eclipse any notions of success and self-confidence. I’m left, at the end of the…

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He who scatters weeps

He who scatters weeps

I spent a good bit of yesterday on the couch, cuddled up next to my middle child. He was sick, thankfully with a mild stomach bug that simply required a day of sleep. While the sick day at home gave me the opportunity to do some much-need cleaning and organizing, I chafed at the restraint. Outside, spring taunted me. So far, September’s weather has been fickle, trying to decide whether to cling to the winter chill and clouds or to…

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Birthday Cake

Birthday Cake

This weekend, I baked a birthday cake for our youngest. In keeping with the typical treatment of the third child, it was a week late — neither had any presents been opened. She’s only two, so she won’t fully comprehend this neglect. Before my shopping trip, I scoured my favorite cooking blog for a recipe. Unsatisfied, I asked my husband for his opinion. “Why don’t you make the Bomb?” he responded. “A Zimmovan family tradition — perfect for her birthday.”…

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Benediction

Benediction

The days are too long and the nights come too early. My legs waver and my arms droop and my feet ache. This labor of love, this daily ritual of care: a cross-marked life that seems a far cry from the glory of that tree My house looks different than it used to. Scattered toys and gummy floors — remains of breakfasts, furtive snacks stollen in secret. There’s chalk on my window screens and crayon on the wall. These and…

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