In Canada, they use the word “holiday” like Americans use the word “vacation.” They’ll say, “We’re going on holidays,” or, “Enjoy your holidays!”

Anyway. Today is “Civic Holiday” because somebody decided we need a holiday in August. Bless them.

Gabriel is mowing lawn, Bronwyn is sleeping off the Monday blues (she gets them every week; she’s not used to socializing all day on Sundays yet), and I’m catching up on housework. You know it’s bad when the toothbrush holder in the bathroom smells like smutty rotting vegetation.

Last week in church, Bronwyn spit up all down my back. It went down past my waist and made puddles on the pew. This week she filled her pants so loudly that (I’m told) it was heard all the way on the other side of the church. Surely there’s a limit to the number of embarrassing bodily functions she can perform in public.

A dear lady in church gave me a bunch of D. E. Stevenson books to read while I feed Bronwyn. They’re all the same—light, fluffy, predictable romances, but they make me think about something else besides the work that needs to be done while I sit and feed my baby. Bless her for remembering what it was like when she had babies and for introducing me to Stevenson’s books.

Americans, wait it out—Labor Day is coming. Canadians, have a nice holiday.

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