This morning, before even breakfast, the kids were already squabbling. They've been consistently getting on each other's nerves since about half-way through North Carolina.
I was feeling a little down. It's our first Sunday here and I miss my church family. We're going to visit a PCA church here, and I know there will be some familiar things-- communion, the creeds, the hymns (thank the Lord for universal symbols of the Faith). But in large part, it will be strange and new.
So I decided to make myself some grits. You know, comfort food. 'Cause everyone knows that there's nothing like grits and eggs to heal pretty much any existential angst. (Can I get an amen??)
But then I spilled the grits all over the kitchen floor. I went to vacuum it up. And let me tell you, this is a small kitchen. There simply isn't room for me, baby and a vacuum. I knocked the crisp, perfectly browned bacon on the floor. I vacuumed that up, made more grits, kept my chin up. And then I realized that we were out of butter.
At that point I had two options; a good hard cry, or a blog post. I chose the blog post, because, you know, mascara... and a new church... gotta make an impression...