This is the stage that all of Shari’s thinking blog readers have been dreading for years, when her humor and good sense desert her and she disintegrates into dramatic, naval-gazing grief for weeks on end.
The point of Christmas is that Christ entered. Here. He is the last person in the world to be upset with a mess, or rattled by the unforeseen. He is acquainted with grief.
Here, baby, watch me blend the ingredients
When I am done, lick the cookie dough spoon
For when I am stressed I bake, I bake
And when I am stressed, I bake.
This post is not a confession. I ought to have one blog on which to confess and one on which to brag. But you wouldn’t read the brag blog, would you? Oh that’s right, you would–you already read fifty others. Sigh. You’ll just have to put up with the occasional non-confession from the Confessions girl. […]
(Maybe.) ***** I do not know if you will be a boy or a girl. I do not know if your skin will be black or white, or something in between. I do not know if you will be an infant or already grown into a toddler. I do not know if you will come […]