|Ha Ha Ha Ha!|
After birthing and raising three children, now in my twentieth year, I figure I get to call myself a Mother Superior. You can, too, if you want. I'm not trying to act conceited -- just Superior. This morning, I wrangled the boys into taking down the tree and then rearranging the living room to my precise specifications. Perhaps I'm not so much a Mother Superior as the mother of Superior Sons. Despite the constant bickering and escalated shouts, the cranking up of music and the competing blares from the saxophone, the room got done. These boys even vacuumed the furniture.
Oliver then got busy making tortillas with his tortilla press. We squeezed lime juice on those little circles of corn and sprinkled salt on them, ate them hot as fast as he could make them.
And Sophie? Sophie was really happy today, less agitated, with no seizures to speak of. Knock on wood. Three times. I got a kick out of playing with her -- she loves these crazy felt mums on my slippers -- Mother Superior definitely getting some interest from one of the cloistered sisters.
Sisters and Brothers, how was your Sunday? Tell Mother Superior.