The Age of Reason

Last night I learned that my ultra-Catholic, ultra-cool grandmother didn't bring any of her four children to church until they were seven. Seven was dubbed the "age of reason."

I miss her.

I went to church alone on Sunday, and we'll just have to play it by ear as to when or if John will go back with me. It is a lot to ask of a little person, I think.

Speaking of age and reason, I'm finding that it is rough going for John and I lately. He thinks "no" and "stop" are the funniest jokes he's ever heard, and oh BOY does that get on my nerves. The food and cup launching are one thing, and while I hate them, I do realize that they aren't dangerous or potentially harmful. It's the danger and potential harm that gets me all fired up. The oven, the toilet, the stairwell, the garbage can. Our days lately revolve around why it isn't a good idea to dive into any of the above. It is exhausting and frustrating. Or it isn't, depending on my freshness as his mom, the time of day, and the level of caffeine in my system.

I ordered some parenting books. Perhaps there will be some insight.

My camera is broken and I am sad. I did get these cute pictures last week, though:

A definite perk of this stage? The hugs! I get at least 10 a day.

Not much that is cuter than boys in a bath, I'd say.