The early morning quiet and the time to pray and the chance to allow my introverted self to start my day with a bit less of a bang is amazing.

When I was staying with one of my favorite aunts before the Man and I got married (she's now the kids' god-Aunt), she and I would make happiness lists on the kitchen chalkboard. Sometimes I like to continue the tradition on my own. It's a good way to get a snapshot of where I am and what I'm finding joy in.

Over the past few weeks, I've begun frequenting a farmer's market in the area. I tote all the kids with me, and we go and buy the essentials: fruit and flowers, with the occasional loaf of bread or vegetable thrown in for good measure.

I grated zucchini. I measured flour and sugar. I whisked and stirred and licked the spatula. The house was quiet and peaceful, and it was one of those moments where I found my soul being fed.

"Prayer was never meant to be magic," Mother said.

"Then why bother with it?" Suzy scowled.

"Because it's an act of love," Mother said.

A Ring of Endless Light, Madeleine L'Engle

The phrase "self care" has been cropping up a lot in my reading lately and in my life. The Man has to get on to me fairly regularly because in my attempts to take care of everyone else, I sometimes forget to take care of myself. Inevitably, that doesn't end well.

There is something in us as human beings that thrills to the thought of who we could be. As a child, all that hope is wrapped up in one question: what do you want to be when you grow up? It's fun to answer that question as a kid, and it's fun to ask it of our kids as parents.

I got an email this week from a friend asking me for some advice on getting her baby to sleep. It was hard not to laugh hysterically.

Tonight at Advent after reading the story of the angel Gabriel's announcement to Mary:

The Man: Boys, how would you feel if an angel appeared to you and told you that your life was going to change completely?

I'm realizing that Christmas is run by anti-perfectionism in our home. Well, a lot of things in our home are run by anti-perfectionism; I just realized it when we were decorating for Christmas.

The Man and I are just a month or so shy of six years of marriage, so I've been thinking a lot lately about what makes a marriage work and why.

It's the last day of October, the last day of daily writing, the last day of thinking purposefully about this weird in between space I'm in right now. Somehow I really think I had tricked myself into believing there would be this massive transformation and the end of October would include a glittery denouement of awesome.

There's not.