Rachel Writes

I'm not a very good cook, but not awful either. This takes me out of the awful category: I can count only 3 times where I've made meals that have caused me to gag. So in general, I'm a decent cook. A good cook, is a healthy man or woman, stirring 3 bowls of ingredients simultaneously. Cooking a combo of 5 side dishes and main courses in one afternoon. Even my friend who is as skinny as the letter l (not my typical view of a good cook) is a marvelous cook because the capacity of her heart. She receives each ingredient as a gift. She marvels over them. Takes the time for things to simmer and roast. And the ingredients just fall in love with her and produce a marvelous dish. It's okay that I cannot cook well because I persevere anyway and feed the various people around me. It's also okay because I know how to laugh, at myself, at situations, and that is Grace. And that makes today okay.

I'd like my mornings to be my own. But they are not. My alarm clocks are my kids. I'm thinking of all the women out there awoken by kids, by sick parents, but jobs with insane hours. You want your mornings back too, huh? To have a nice cup of coffee or tea. To read a little something, book or newspaper, to run if you want, or do yoga. But for now, we're thrust into the morning like the jerking start of a roller coaster ride, except we don't just have to hang on, we have to function. I'm off to make breakfast. I'm thankful for all the men and women who help me in my life. I am not alone.

The kids helped me sort their toys today and chose 3 bags of toys to give away. Yes, we have that many toys. Even as we were sorting I thought, this is what is meant by an exercise in futility. I'm trying not to be a grumbly woman, but more in a matter-of-fact way just realizing that what we have sorted will find its way to being unsorted. But at the same time, I'm much to blame for this mess. This futility. Sometimes I buy thinking, maybe this one will be the toy that she magically connects with. This will be the toy that will help determine his future career. This toy will buy me half an hour of peace. But they never turn out that way (well, I mean, I'll let them tell the story of the toy that determined their career choice if that how it all happens, but I don't really see that as much of a possibility) And sometimes I have trouble giving toys away-- hoarding. And what's particularly gross about that last item is that my friend's baby has one toy. L...