It was First Friday mass, and I was involved in that delicate and magical dance of trying to keep a toddler entertained, happy and quiet during mass. I was pacing the back of the Cathedral along with the husband of a friend, gently swaying back and forth with his newborn son in his arms. I could tell he was finding humor in my feeble attempts to ammuse my little guy. Once out on the veranda, he commented, “You sure weren’t ready for a boy! God sure knows what he is doing!”
He was right. I wasn’t ready for a boy.
I wasn’t ready for my bathroom wall to be covered in ink, the tiled kitchen floor to be colored with permanent marker. Nor was I ready for the covers of treasured books to be ripped off, or for the carpet in the hallway to be ripped at it’s seam. It never occurred that open drawers made good step stools or that wood blinds make good swords. I never anticipated that my refrigerator would double as a rock climbing wall, or that any cushioned stationary object would be a wonderful trampoline.
No, I certainly was not ready for a boy.
God sure does know what he is doing.