Secret Agent Josephine

This post is from my good friend Angella from Dutch Blitz. Thank you Angella!

I am a woman in her mid-thirties. A wife of one and a mother of three. Some days I do not know how I arrived to this place. To this Thing Called Life that I am living.

I remember being a teenager. Full of pimples, plump with fat, ensconced with glasses. I daydreamed about Boys, talked about Boys with my girlfriends, wondered if I would ever have a Boy to call my own.

This same scenario continued into my twenties. I was a Girl. Hoping for a Boy. So that we could make Kids.

I wondered if it would really happen. If I would Find The One. My friends seemed to have no problem finding their Boy.

I remember talking to God and telling Him that I was totally fine with having no Boy, if that is what The Plan was. All I asked was that He take the desire for The Boy from my heart.

It was only fair.

Shortly thereafter, I met THE BOY. We had two weeks of dates, and four weeks later we were engaged. Five months later we were married.

I KNOW.

Fast forward eight years and we have somehow arrived to this Thing Called Life. Three kids under the age of six. Two boys, one girl. People stop me in the street, many times over. They make the comment, “Three kids! You must be busy”.

Sherlock. You are on to something.

Yes. We are busy.

Yes. It is crazy.

Yes. I lose my temper more than I should.

Yes. I have three of the most amazing children that Earth has ever seen.

Yes. I somehow managed to marry the most perfect match that I could have ever hoped for.

Yes. My laundry is a little behind.

Don’t even get me started on my bathrooms.

I often look in the rearview mirror at my three children and am sideswiped by the enormity of it all.

I am a WIFE.

I am a MOM.

I have THREE KIDS.

HOW DID I GET HERE?

I am baffled. Amazed. Tired. Astounded. Crazy. Awestruck.

I would not have it any other way.

This post is from my good friend Nicole from deliajude who I coincidentally know from back in the cringe-worthy years. Thank you Nicole!

I love parcels in the mail.
Even expected packages, you know, the kind you order yourself.
(I love the unexpected ones even more.)
This particular box was the kind of parcel I handpicked from Amazon.
A little indulgence.
A just because I deserve a new book…or two.
I knew what was coming.
Books I had heard a many great things about.
But how could I know just how amazing the books would be.

The Gentle Art of Domesticity and Cringe.
Patiently, I awaited the US release of Gentle Art,
as I was not willing to pay shipping costs from the UK.
Well worth the wait.
A lovely little, or as the case may be, not-so-little book.
I did the initial flip-through, stopping occasionally to read an excerpt and soak in the photographs…I definitely want to try my hand at making “rock cakes.”
I cannot wait to dive in…curled up on a cozy sofa with a cuppa joe in hand.
…
When I flipped open Cringe the first thing I noticed was inside the book flap.
What are those called?
The compiler, Sarah Brown, had a list from her teenage years of everything she wore to school for the school year 90/91.
I started chuckling because somewhere is stashed a box full of my teenage journals and somewhere in that box is a journal, on yellow paper is written every thing I wore for in grade 10.
Yeah, call me super vain!
Or super insecure. I suspect the latter.
…
I was inspired to pull out my old journals and notebooks and spend a couple of hours gasping at what I thought were huge life decisions…turns out I was a vain, selfish teenager who thought far too much about clothes, boys and death.

Also, it appears I have since tossed a couple of teenage-angst-filled diaries and what remains are many journals from my twenties, clipping notebooks (articles and photographs), and prayer journals. I thought about giving you a wee sampling but instead I challenge you to unearth the journals of your youth and take a good look at your younger self.

Entertaining I suspect.

Or go out and buy Cringe, which by the by is the perfect name for such a book, and be entertained.

Better yet, do both.