Sunday, Bloody Sunday

Please tell me it's not just me! I've come to dread Sunday mornings. It's the most awefull, painful and agonizing time of my whole week! I swear we'd stop going to church if I didn't need the chance to repent of all my sins so much. Jay's got 7 AM meetings so he's long gone and not handy when I'm trying to get myself ready (A major feat, let me tell you. Like trying to get this 3-baby-bearing, C-section-scarred, jiggly goo of a gut restrained in pantyhose or my whole-body girdle. Makes me shudder even now.) as well as three monkeys! It's like herding cats, I tell ya.

Parker whining "I don't want to go to church" and staring blankly at his toast. Eat it already! And then wrestling Merritt into her dress--I'm literally down on the floor, holding her down and doing up snaps, buttons, zippers and then shoving her feet into the socks and shoes. "You WILL wear this adorable dress and matching hair bow and you'll be beautiful while you're at it! NO, don't lay down or sit on the couch or roll all around on the floor. You'll wrinkle!" And of course, by now my hair has dried with spikes on the left and limp lumps on the right and then Spencer starts crying. Great! Now I've got to nurse him, make sure I'm not leaking like a faucet, dress him--"Please don't spit up, please don't spit up, please--Dang it! You've spit up all over your adorable romper and cute shoes! Well, you'll just have to look stained and stink like curdled cheese 'cause we're late."

And so I slap some makeup on (Yes, my face does intentionally look like war paint,) slip on my "Mom" church shoes (When did I get so old that I've started picking dressy shoes based on comfort and not style?), strap everyone in (after chasing Merritt around the van 3 times,) back out and hit the truck parked opposite my driveway. "Oh well, I'm in a hurry and any fool would know not to park directly across from a driveway and it's only a little scratch and a ding and a...anyway, I'm leaving." And I floor it.

I kid you not about the dented truck. And this Sunday, during the Indy 500 to church ("We're getting there in time for the sacrament, by golly.") Parker asked me, "Mom, is it fast Sunday?" (Note to self: have a FHE about fasting.) "No, honey, it's not fast Sunday." Before I could launch into a hurried explanation of fasting, while watching out for cops and yellow lights, he said "Then why do you have to drive so fast?"

Hmm, good question. Isn't the point of going to church to feel peaceful and open to the Spirit? How come someone's always crying on the way to church and most likely it's me? Yeah, we might make it in time for the sacrament, slipping in during the last verse of the sacrament hymn, but am I spiritually ready for it? We're all grumpy, with hurt feelings and we're supposed to be ready to be spiritually fed.

So I'm changing my ways (I mean it this time.) I think it's more important that we get to church in an attitude of reverence and peace than make it on time. So we'll drive at a legal pace, cross my fingers that the hymns are long and pray that Jay gets a new calling.

The end.