In our family we say we believe in praying to God, but I’m pretty sure that fairly frequently my kids pray at each other and even more often, they use their prayers as a chance to tell me off.

Magoo’s prayers are usually fairly repetitive. He says, “We thank thee for our family and friends and things and stuff,” and then closes his prayer. He figures this covers most everything important to him in his life without going into unnecessary detail and that if he keeps saying he’s thankful for what he has, there’s a good chance God will keep giving it to him. He rarely asks for anything. When he does, I’m pretty sure the request is directed at me, not The Man Upstairs. This week, for example, he prayed that he could please get to hold Wanda more tomorrow and shot me a meaningful glance.

Mothering is of extremes.

Last week, my daughter put on a shiny gold tutu and melted my heart as she showed off her ballet moves and her fabulous, free-style "wiggle-wiggle-pop."

Then, for a few nights going she has broken my heart when she has cried and told me she is afraid of dying.

At some point early in our marriage, my husband noticed I stepped wide around discarded bags -- big or small, paper or plastic.

I think we were in New York City, meandering, when he first asked me what the deal was with my litter phobia.

"Brujeria,'' I said. "Witchcraft.''

You never know if there is some sort of “trabajo” in there. Step on it and you pick up the curse aimed at someone else. At least that's what my grandmother said, I told him, explaining my "curse-in-a-bag'' superstition.

Miraculously, my perfectly Protestant husband did not try to talk me out of my crazy.

This week my baby girl turns eight years old. In some ways it seems as if she has been a part of my life forever. Yet, I cannot believe this little angel is already eight. After the birth of my two boys, my husband and I decided we were finished having children and our family would be complete at four. However, there was a deep longing within me that never quite left. Even though our family was happy and thriving, I always felt as if someone was missing. I assumed that was just how women felt when they decided their child bearing years were over. Basically, I chalked it up to “that is just how it is” and tried to make peace with that longing.

Then at a time when our family most needed a blessing, a time when we needed confirmation of goodness and life, I found out I was pregnant again. To say I was shocked would be the biggest understatement I could possibly make about this event. I took eight home pregnancy tests. (I do realize one would have done it but I knew this pregnancy was impossible and I had to be sure I was not dreaming it up.) After laying all of the tests out side by side seeing all of their various ways of saying that I was indeed pregnant, I sat on the floor and cried. They were not tears of sadness or shock or even disbelief. They were tears of gratitude and joy.

Every Sunday on the way home from church we ask the kids what they learned in their classes. Usually Magoo says, "Nothing" or "Birds and animals" or "God gave me a belly button." Laylee tends to retain the deeper doctrine and a few weeks ago she shared with us the story of the widow's mite from the New Testament.