I don’t like to be busy, that’s what I’ll tell you. And then I may complain about a schedule that overwhelms me, an introvert and a homebody, when our calendar may appear a paltry collection of appointments and extracurriculars to the mom stimulated by activity.

I’m probably a cessationist, but I’ve taken the online quizzes; I always get the same results. My spiritual gift, according to the algorithm, is prophecy. It makes sense as long as I’m not considering it predictive or, even, as an actual word from the Lord.

Over the course of an entire weekend, because we are tired parents and cannot commit to a three-hour movie in one sitting, my husband and I watched the Godfather. The violent scenes were few, but unwitnessed: I would bury my face in Timothy’s shoulder and ask “can I look can I look when is it over is it over yet?” The same face-burrowing happened a few weeks earlier, when we watched the Patriot. I have no stomach for blood.