While that line has nothing to do with my post for today, I didn't want to join the group of gazillion bloggers going with a "Happy St. Patrick's Day!" headline (no offense, Luke).
This is me and my youngest sister, Donna, stirring up some crazy at the St. Patrick's Day Parade in downtown Chicago last Saturday. Since I've lived in Indiana for the last seven years, and she was five when I left for college, I try really hard to make sure that we have a lot of sister-time weekends. She just turned 12, which makes it even more important that the lines of communication stay open. When she born, I was 12, and I remember begging my mother to let me hold her, and my mother saying, "I'm warning you, once you start helping out I'll want you to do it all the time!" and me not caring, just getting so excited about having the grown-up job of caring for a baby. Donna loved movement, and there were many days where I swayed back and forth, back and forth, all afternoon, in the rocker Mom got as a gift when she was pregnant with me, rubbing her little back, kissing her little cheek.
These memories are doing nothing to reduce my baby fever. On to something else.
Last night I dreamt that I was in charge of a second-grade classroom while the permanent teacher was on a week-long vacation, and at the end of the week, I gave a spelling test featuring words that are a staple in every burger-lovin' American's vocabulary, like, "Ilain" and "relid." Turns out the teacher made me take the same test and I got a big fat "F." I'm going to assume this dream was brought on by the nervous feelings I have about switching careers and not God's way of saying "Don't quit your day job."
On a parting note, I wonder what He says about this. Poor lassie.
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