I went for a walk tonight with my son and wife. It was a beautiful autumn night, warm and full of color. My son insisted on riding the scooter he got for his birthday. "I keep up," he kept saying. "I keep up." Well, not really. The sidewalks were uneven, and the streets were rough. He ended up pushing his scooter more than he rode it. What should have been a twenty-minute jaunt ended up being an hour-long odyssey. It was slow, and I got a little wild. We needed to get home in time for me to pick my daughter up from religion class. Near the end of the walk, I was carrying the scooter while my wife pushed my son in the stroller.
I still haven't relaxed from this morning's attack of anxiety. I prayed a lot. I breathed a lot of deep breaths. And I tried to release control of my day to God. None of that really worked for me. That's why I kept on telling my son, "Hurry up, buddy." I couldn't control my life, so I tried to control my son. Not a good parenting technique. Now, I'm sitting in my living room, watching
Dancing with the Stars and getting pissed off at all the Mitt Romney attack ads.
Saint Marty needs to go to bed and not wake up until after Barack Obama gets reelected.
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| A little over a month left of this guy! Thank God! |
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