Living in Spaghetti

The thought, Writing is like holding on to something that is completely and unmistakeably mine. Where so much of my life is run by the "have to's" writing stays a precious and rare "because I want to" makes me get out the laptop, despite not knowing what it is I want to write about and feeling like my eyelids weigh 450 pounds.
We are in the middle of our week. Noah went to bed smoothly tonight because I've learned to start the whole process much earlier than you'd think you'd need to. I have more patience, he's less tired and grumpy. We can get through five or six stories (holy smoking cows!), a couple of songs, even the 'tune' he likes to play on his harmonica (how in the world THAT ever got thrown into the bedtime routine I will never, ever, know, but it's there, right after turning on his CD player and before placing him in his bed).
Then Ethan. We played checkers after having cookies. He wanted a 'date night' at home. It was fun until the very end, when I beat him. Six year olds are very sore losers.
After he calmed down, he read me, "Take me to the Zoo" and  "A Fish Out of Water". Both books have this rhymey rhythm that put me right to sleep. Reminded me of my dad snoozing on the couch way back when I was little and loved to read.

I remember learning to read. I remember learning to read words like, "LOOK" and "BOOK" and the biggest and weirdest word of all "SPAGHETTI". That one made no sense to me whatsoever and was the first sign that there were things in this world that just don't make any sense, and that's just the way it is. It was the first time I remember having to live in a state of ambiguity. I had to keep going, keep learning how to read, even when  that whopper of a word was thrown in there and smashed to bits all the neat little rules of grammar I was learning.
It would have been nice if someone would have let me know it was an Italian word, not an English word. I think I would have been able to accept it easier.
The inevitable would have come anyway, words that defy all rules and guidelines, words that just are just because.

 I feel sometimes like my whole life is full of  spaghetti, full of things that don't make sense but I have to live through them anyway. Finding the grace to do so is the real miracle: grace to stay hopeful, looking forward to a time when all of it, every single detail, will make perfect sense.
In the meantime we read stories and play the harmonica and checkers, and wait.