Catholic wisdom.

“Maybe it’s because they are more religious down there.”

My Catholic mother’s explanation as to why New Orleans’ French Quarter wasn’t hit as hard as other parts of the city by Hurricane Katrina. Yes, Mom, that’s why they were spared. This is God’s version of a big timeout, and he didn’t want to punish the holy who reside in the French Quarter. Hate to tell you this, Mom, but those aren’t rosary beads.

On a more serious note, you may have noticed that I have not said much about Katrina in previous posts. In my gut, I feel it would be disrespectful for someone who’s currently sitting in the comfort of her in-tact home to offer up what might seem like a contrived statement of grief. If you want to help, you have a dozens of people telling you precisely how to do so. But personally, I found this way of helping quite interesting : Katrina Relief Auction Group at Flickr.

Measure of a man.

I watched my husband care for our sick little boy last night. He rubbed his feverish little head. He gently bathed him after a violent puke of blueberry muffins, curdled milk and Children’s Tylenol. He poured cool water over his feverish, goosebumped body with the little fishy cup. He listened to his sick, senseless moaning. He gathered up the soiled clothes, put them in a trash bag and hauled them downstairs to be washed. All was done with such patience and love. There was no complaining about the situation, or concern that the night’s events were keeping us from our beloved Sunday night HBO (OK, we do have Tivo, but still).

We’ve been with each other for almost 15 years. Never is he more beautiful than when he is knee-deep in fatherhood, caring for our son. I believe that when we’re 80, these will be the moments I remember.

Flapjacks.

My mother just called me — at work, no less — to inform me that she has gone up a bra size. She now wears a 48D. She is 5 feet tall, on her tippy toes, with hair fully-teased. Let’s all close our eyes and visualize this for a moment. Physics alone would dictate that this is a woman who, by all accounts, should not be able to stand up straight. A human Weeble-Wobble, if you will. Hold the syrup, Flo. The maternal flapjacks no longer qualify as a short-stack.