Dear Diary,

I made waffles for breakfast last Thursday. I prepared my sourdough sponge the night before. I was awake before All the Children. I made myself a cup of coffee, and I puttered around the kitchen, and I thought, “Oh, this is why Morning People like getting up before everyone else. It’s so quiet and calming and lovely. I have a Start on the Day. I have time with a Quiet Brain before everyone chatters at me.” 

It was peaceful.

It was fabulous.

I considered for One Second the idea of making it a New Habit. An Industrious Practice I take away from the apocalypse whenever it ends. A More Organized, Prepared Beth, with her Ducks in a Row and Hot Breakfast lovingly prepared for her family that they might Go Forth with nutritious food in their bellies and tender thoughts of their mother in their hearts.

That was a nice second.

I liked it very much.

And then I laughed at myself — hahahahaha! — because I’ve met me, and That Will Never Happen. 

It’s fun to fantasize, though. 

I made waffles for breakfast last Thursday, in my pajamas, sipping my coffee and cream, and I asked Greg if he wanted some before work, hot off the iron.

“Um… yes?” he answered suspiciously. And said, “This is weird.”  And asked, “You’re not trying to tell me something, are you? Like, is this your way of breaking some Awful News to me?”

Diary, he behaved as if I’m not a Proverbs 31 woman.

As if I’m not like the merchant ships, bringing him food from afar.

As if I do not get up while it is still night to provide food for my family and portions for my female servants.

As if I did not literally consider a field and bought it. 

Do I not select wool and work with eager hands, Diary? I have at least seven unfinished crochet and knit projects I worked on with total eagerness.

Does my lamp not stay lit at night? There are several lights I know damn well are on, but do I go into the garage and turn out the one with the switch that’s hard to reach? I do NOT. Lamps = LIT, Diary.

Do I not always speak with wisdom? And watch over the affairs of my household? Am I not clothed in purple (pajamas)?

“Gregory,” I said. “Far be it from me to criticize, but you’re acting like I don’t always make fresh waffles on Thursday mornings.”

“You’re right,” he replied, nodding. Satisfied. Suddenly unafraid. “If you were going to break some bad news to me, you definitely wouldn’t do it with waffles.” 

Which isn’t technically what I said, but is absolutely true. I’m much more likely to verbally bulldoze my way through bad news. No waffles to soften the blow.

In other words, Greg’s a lucky, lucky man.

Q: For a wife of noble character, who can find?
A: Greg.

Regards,

 

 

 

P.S. Our Fairy Message Mother left us a new note.

In a teeny, tiny bottle, hanging from a Hawthorne branch.

The message says, “Be gentle with yourself.”

Word, Fairy Message Mother. Word. 

P.P.S. Enid. Day eighteen.

EIGHTEEN!