I have a bone to pick with Lionel Richie (or the Commodores, or whoever). Somewhere along 1977, they gave us the song "Easy Like Sunday Morning". Lionel and his cronies obviously didn't try wrangling children to church on Sunday mornings or they would never in a million years have recorded this song. "Easy Like Sunday Morning" conjures up this picture in my head of a man, dressed in a fuzzy bathrobe and slippers. He's dunking his donut into his coffee and reading the paper while the dog lays at his feet. And maybe for that guy, his Sunday morning is easy. But I'd like to see Lionel write a song about that guy's wife...
...That guy's wife. Aye carumba. I'd venture to guess that many of us mama's who try to get our kids to church would like to kick the easy Sunday morning notion in the teeth. Here's how a typical Sunday morning goes in my house:
1. Roll out of bed when kids start running down the steps like elephants. I contemplate pretending that I don't hear them, but then realize that they will most likely kill each other or rip the house apart from ceiling to floor if I don't get up and get food in their stomachs.
2. Cook breakfast. On Sundays, I really try to make a hot breakfast for my family. It's like my penance to make up for the amount of pop tarts I shove down their throats during the school week.
3. Clean up breakfast. Load dishwasher. Sweep up crumbs.
4. Give the dog medicine. Shove the same pill down her throat at least five times since she hocks it up and spits it out every single time. I try hard not to cuss at her since it is Sunday and she's sick.
5. Finally take time to gulp some caffeine. Now, my nose wakes up enough to realize that Miles smells like poop. Our conversation goes like this, "Miles, did you poop in your pants?" Him, "Ummmm. No, mommy. Sadie did it." Me, "Sadie pooped in your pants?" Miles, "Yeah." I quickly realize that giving him the third degree does no good. He gets bathed and lotioned and his hair gets lotioned and combed and his clothes get put on. Then I move to the second kid.
6. Kid number 2's sensory issues get the best of him when we switch from the summer to the fall wardrobe. We have the conversation about how it is too cold to wear soccer shorts for the three hundredth time. We discuss the need to wear pants to church instead of pajamas. He cries. We hug. I try to do a little occupational therapy voodoo on the kid and we get his pants buttoned. Then we deal with socks. And shoes. God help me. Why does it come as a surprise to everyone that they have to wear shoes when we go to church every single time. PEOPLE! Yes, we are from Kentucky, but you can not go to church with no shoes.
7. Then I have a shoes fight with kid number 3. Every Sunday she gripes and moans that she wants to wear high heels to church. Her feet are enormous and she nearly wears women's sizes in shoes. And women's high heels are not appropriate for her. Call me a prude, but she is seven and a little girl- not a tiny hooker. I made the mistake of buying her some teeny tiny high heels a couple of years ago when they were on clearance. On the occasional Sunday she still tries to jam her foot in them Cinderella's step-sister style and whines when she realizes for the seventy eleventh time that they are about 4 sizes too small. Then there is hair to comb, teeth to brush and dresses to be mulled over.
8. Then I drag myself to the tub. I think about shaving my legs, but it's too much effort. I look over at myself in the mirror and sigh. I drag myself over to the closet and sigh. I have a bazillion summer dresses but nothing for fall weather except a size six navy dress that just sits in my closet to serve as a reminder that at one time in my life I was thin and fit into a nice navy dress. Damn navy dress. I ask my husband, who wears a suit to work every day if he will be embarrassed of me if I wear jeans to church. He tries to smile sweetly at me, knowing that no answer about a woman's wardrobe is acceptable. I go and pull my jeans out of the dryer and spend the next ten minutes doing the pants dance trying to get them buttoned because I'm too lazy to look for my spanx.
9. One kid spills a drink all down the front of them and has to be changed.
10. Find my socks, find my shoes, and lament that flip flop season is over.
11. I look for my check book to write a check to church, pulling everything out of cabinet looking for said checkbook. I check the bank balance to make sure I don't bounce a check to church.
12. Start telling the children and husband that it is time to load up and go to church as I run around gathering things and throwing them in my purse. Five minutes later, I'm still running around, one shoe on, one earring on, searching for my wedding band and yelling, "Get in the car! Time to go!" I run to the bathroom to brush my teeth and hope to knock my bad breath down. By this point I'm screaming, "GET IN THE CAR RIGHT NOW! WE ARE GOING TO BE LATE!" It finally registers to them that maybe they should move or mom is going to blow a gasket.
13. Load three kids in the van. Slink down in my seat and let out a giant breath. Husband says something like "Why are you sweating?" and I sigh.
14. I spend the entire ride to church thinking about serenity and trying to recuperate from the morning while the children argue about what to listen to on the radio.
15. Walk into church, put on a smile and pray fervently that in the rare event that Lionel Richie walks into the sanctuary, that God gives me the restraint I need to keep from strangling him.