The Villiage Idiot

"It takes a village to raise a child"

I have always hated that motto.  It's so trite.  Hackneyed.  Leftist.  And wrong.

It doesn't take a village.  It takes loving parents to raise a child. 

Loving parents who have really, really good friends.

Like my friend Herb who went to pick up #3 son at 6:30 one evening because Greg thought I was picking him up and I thought Greg was picking him up and neither one of us could be reached by cell phone.

A few months ago, Herb's wife Sarah picked up the same kid for the same reason.

Heh. 

Or my friend Laura who called me in Austin last week to ensure that #1 son had a ride to scouts.  Because she knew that his dad was overwhelmed with being on his own, and felt that if he could manage to keep the kids alive while I was out of town, then he succeeded.  Scouts was just a little TOO much on the plate.

Saturday, in addition to the usual routine, I had to return rental cars and close out books for the conference.  Laura had a kid in the doctor's office.  Both of our #1 sons had to be in the track meet.  Both of our husbands had to work. 

We solved the problem by having her husband drop off and my husband pick up. 

Then there was the horrible night almost 5 years ago when I was pregnant with #3 and bleeding copiously in the middle of the night.  Greg took #1 & #2 to our friends Terry & Mary's house to sleep over so we could go to the ER. 

As you know, everything turned out OK.  Our precious # 3 is a miracle and we thank God every day for him.  We don't always pick him up from daycare on time, be we do thank God for him.

We also thank God for our friends.  Our village.  Thanks to them, we'll be able to raise these boys, despite the fact that Greg & I are truly the Village Idiots.

Playground Justice

I took my boys to the mall playground yesterday.

They love that stupid place.

For one thing, it's inside.  For another, it's got a cookie store and a candy store right around the corner. 

The area is really designed for littles 5 & under.  I figured we were OK because #2 is 6 and #3 is almost 4.  (#1 is on a camping trip with his dad). 

I warned the kids that they had to be careful of little kids.  I reminded them that I would be watching.

Then I watched. 

I watched them jump.  I watched them run.  I watched them climb. 

I watched the other kids too.  For some reason, every boy in there was named Luke & every girl was Nevaeh. (Plus Paul.)


I know that because every time I told Luke to be careful, six or seven little boys looked at me for a minute before determining that I was not admonishing them. 

Also, one mom spent her time between sucking on her grande moacchino, checking her iPhone and occasionally screeching "Nevaeh!  Stop it!  Nevaeh.  Niv-E-YAH!" 

All the other Nevaehs looked up, while the targeted Nevaeh continued to pound on the fish tank or pull on some Luke's hoodie or climb on the potted plants.

She was a little hyper.  Whaddya gonna do?  Kids are hyper.

I try not to be Judgy McJudgermom.  I try SO HARD.

Because my kids aren't perfect. 

But the more I watched Nevaeh, the judgier I got. 

She was wearing a spaghetti strap top.  It's Texas, and pretty warm here, but not spaghetti-strap top warm.  Yes, my son was in shorts, but that's completely different.   Nevaeh is starting to develop, and spaghetti strap tops are not her friend.

She was mean to the other kids.  Not just pushy - she was mean.  She frequently pushed her way to the front of the slide line, and knocked kids out of the way at the fish tank.  She stuck her tongue out at one of the Lukes. 

Every now & then, she ran to her mother to get a pull off the grande moacchino. 

I wouldn't have been surprised to see her mother give her a drag off a cigarette.

I noticed another mom eyeing Nevaeh as well.  Every time Nevaeh did something obnoxious, other mom & I would exchange eye rolls. 

Finally, Nevaeh pushed Paul. 

PUSHED him.

As he tearfully came to me for comfort, I looked at Nevaeh's mom to see if she noticed.  She was too involved in her pinterest account to notice that her kid was being a bully.

I hugged and consoled Paul and looked for Luke.  It was time to go. 

Luke -- my Luke, not the other Lukes -- was chasing Nevaeh. 

"Hey!" he yelled "Hey!  You PUSHED my brother!".  He maneuvered himself in front of her and forced her to acknowledge him. 

"You PUSHED him" Luke reiterated.

"Sorry" said Nevaeh.

"You need to tell him," insisted Luke, and he steered Nevaeh over to us.

"Sorry," said Nevaeh to Paul.  She patted him on the shoulder and then tore off to do more terror.

I didn't say anything to Nevaeh or to her mother.  Nothing I said was going to make any difference, and I am pretty sure that had I said something, I would have gotten a very aggressive retort.  I didn't need to get into a mom-brawl in front of my kids.

I figured Luke did a pretty good job of handling it. 

Playground Justice was served.

Brotherly Love

I don't often tell stories on my siblings because. . . .

They would be pissed.

Let's just say that I am the oldest of 4 kids.  Let's just say that we were all close.  So close that sometimes we bugged the crap out of each other. 

Because I am the oldest, wisest, and the biggest, occasionally I would strike one of my siblings.

I hit like a girl, it can't have hurt that much.

Except for the red hand print that I left on my sisters bare back.  Or the apple that hit my brother right between the shoulder blades. Big crybaby.

I remember one day vividly.  My family was at Sears.  Mom was looking at washer/dryer combos.  It was a Saturday.  In June. 

I was lovingly correcting my younger brother.  We'll call him Tim. 

Tim had enough of my helpful suggestions and decided to belt me one.

Right in the solar plexus.

As hard as he could.

It still hurts.

Because I had been struck for no good reason, I took the tack that always seemed to work for my siblings.

"MOM!  Tim hit me!"

My experience was that once Mom found out someone (usually me) was hitting her precious child (usually him), that the perpetrator (me) would be punished.   Naturally I expected similar retribution in this case.

Instead, Mom said:

"Good.  It's about time he started standing up for himself".

The reason I share this with you today is because I now have three boys. 

Two of the boys are being chased by their brother who is shouting vaugue but convincing threats about pending injury.

I gotta admit, they asked for it.

I would call my mom for sympathy.

But I know better.

Karma's a bitch.

Water Baby

We go to the beach a lot.  We love the beach.  This weekend, while at the beach, a little girl came by to play with the boys.   I love that about kids.  They see another kid & they just start to play together. 

And this girl is ADORABLE. She has beautiful cafe-con-leche skin; crazy, happy hair with a tiny blue barrette in it, and a precious pink gingham bikini.  This child was friendly and very charming. This is the kind of child that makes me wish (a tiny bit) that I had a little girl.

What she didn't seem to have were parents.

I asked where they were & she said "they are in the white car". . .I looked -- saw the white car, but no parents.

Her name is Olivia, and she is 3.

THREE. Almost 4, apparently, but still. She's 3.

The waves at Bob Hall Pier are not too bad, but it's very easy to get out too far without realizing it. Especially if you are 3.

My son is 3 and I won't let him NEAR the water without me or his dad. I won't let the 6 or 9 year olds near the water without me or their dad.

I have this thing about water safety. I think it is important.

I think that one of the duties a parent has is to ensure that children are safe around water.  Pools, lakes and beaches.  Beaches with strong undertows that can sweep a child out into the ocean as fast as you can say David Hasselhoff.

We could not see this girl's parents anywhere.

When it was time to go, I said "Olivia honey, we have to go. Let's go find your mommy, OK?"

She said "No -- I am going to find some other kids to play with" and she skipped over to another family playing not far away.

I approached the family and explained: "I don't know who she is, but I am going to call the ranger. Can you keep an eye on her?"  The Mom said "I thought she was yours".

I wish.

By the time I got to the car -- Viola! Her mother shows up.

Her mother looks just like you'd think she'd look. 19. Tramp Stamp. Piercings.  Gangster Boyfriend who obviously is not Olivia's daddy.  (How do I know?  Olivia is clearly half white and half black.  Gangster Boyfriend is clearly Hispanic.  Not Olivia's daddy.) 

It's not that I have a problem with moms being 19 with tramp stamps and piercings and Gangster Boyfriends. (well, the 19 & Gangster Boyfriend parts aren't cool). I do have a problem with letting your 3 year old play by the water without proper supervision.

Sigh. Poor Olivia.

Ink

Because I had my last baby at age 42, it's not a surprise that I am sometimes 20 (or more) years older than the other moms in his class.

One of his best friends has parents much younger than me.

They are intelligent.  Educated.  Interesting.  Tattooed. 

They have beautiful children and they are a lovely young family.  They are just covered from toenails to eyeballs in colorful, permanent designs.  With lots of piercings.  Both of them.  I don't know what they do for a living, but I am betting neither one of them is a banker.

I don't mean to sound like such an oldster. 

I am not anti-tattoo.  Not at all.  I may get one someday. 

I might need it sooner than later.

I was dropping #3 off at daycare.  I wore a skirt.  His little friend with the colorful mommy gave me a hug.  Then he poked me right above the knee and said "My mommy has a picture there too."

I looked at my knee to see what he was talking about.

That's not a picture, honey.

It's a varicose vein.

Sigh.

Mind Your Business

It's spring break!

Yeay!

I thought being with the littles 24/7 would be a nightmare, but we are having a really good time.

You know what I have noticed?  When you are with children, people feel it's OK to get in your business. 

I was in a ladies room with the 3 year old and the 6 year old.  We were taking care of business when the lady in the next stall felt she needed to shout directions.  At first I thought she must be on her phone, but then I realized she was talking to us.

I told 3 year old he'd have to sit down to pee and she yelled "It's OK honey, it's just this one time". 

I told 6 year old not to open the door until I was finished and she said "Mommy doesn't want people to see her undressed, sweetie".

Then my 3 year old made an observation about me. . .I won't go into specifics as it was very personal.  Let's just say it's a "Special Time" at my house (if you get the code, good.  If you don't, too friggin bad).  She shouted out "Don't worry honey, Mommy is going to be OK"

WTF lady?

Then as we were washing hands, she came up behind 3 year old to lift him to the sink.  Umm. .. I've got it, thanks.

Later, we were at a restaurant ordering lunch.  The waitress was one of those Flo types -- huge beehive hairdo, pen behind her ear, the whole deal.  I ordered grilled cheese and a side of steamed broccoli for the kids.  My kids LIKE steamed broccoli.  I swear. 

She said "Honey, they will never eat it.  Get the fries."

"No, we'll get the broccoli, thanks."

"But they won't eat it"

"They'll eat some of it"

Then she ROLLED HER EYES at me and submitted my order. 

She also gave my 9 year old a kid's drink, when I ordered a regular.  "I don't want him to spill it"  she said.

He won't spill it.  He's nine.  He's nine going on thirty if you want to know the truth.  I might spill, but he won't.   Who is paying for this anyway?

The kids ate some of their sandwich and some of their broccoli. 

"I told you they wouldn't eat it"  she said. 

That's not the way to get big tips lady.

Then today I got it again. 

I was at Home Depot & referred to my oldest son as Jojo.  He prefers going by Joseph, but he's my kid and we (sometimes) call him Jojo at home.  This old guy in the paint aisle said "Don't call him Jojo -- that's a sissy name".

Oh yeah?  I bet your grandson's name is Jordyn.  THAT'S a sissy name Grampa.

If you see me out & about with my kiddos, feel free to say hello.  But do me a favor & mind your business.

Back to the Routine!

After a week of being a SAHM, I am thrilled to be back at work.  It was great spending time with my littles -- most of the time.  But honestly, we are all pretty sick of each other right  now. 

This morning I eagerly put on my makeup, picked an outfit and got ready for work!  yeay! 

Today was also the first Back-to-School morning in a week.   

Number 1 Son couldn't find his long pants. He had no idea where they would be. "Son. You figured out there was NO SANTA when you were 3. You can't figure out where your goddam pants are????  Did you even LOOK in the drawer?  I didn't think so."

Number 2 Son decides to dance in his underwear all over the house. before, during and after breakfast. I have to tell him over and over and over and OVER to get his clothes on. Then he cried because I yelled.

Number 3 Son acts like he's 6 months old & wants to be carried everywhere. Won't eat his breakfast because he's cold. After he's dressed won't eat it because he's laughing at Number 2  in his underwear.

Husband is yelling at everyone to hurry up.  Yelling at Number 1 Son to get his jacket.  Yelling at Number 2 to put his shoes on.  Yelling at Number 3 for spilling his yogurt.  Did it ever occur to Husband to give 1 the jacket, put shoes on 2 or put 3's yogurt in a bowl for them?  No.  Because they are old enough to do it themselves.

I agree.  They are old enough.  But if you want it done with a minimum of shouting and/or tears. . .. it's best to help them out a little.  And you yelling?  That's not helping.

Now I know why Mother drank.

Personal Best part II

There is a reason why I rarely post on weekends.

It's because of my miracle baby.

He really is a miracle. The doctor told me that I was too old and too fat to have any more kids.  He didn't say it just like that, but that's what he meant.

When we found out about baby #ooops, my husband said "get a new OB".  I did, and I love her.

She didn't say I was too old and too fat, she said that my age carried certain risks.  And she tested me for everything.

At 13 weeks, I thought I lost him.

He's my third kid.  I've been through this before.  I won't tell you exactly what my symptoms were because they are very personal.  And also really, really gory.  But I was certain that my oooops was gone.

Of course, I had an ultrasound to make sure.

And he was ALIVE!  And he was perfect!  And he stayed perfect! 

And now he's a very normal, healthy almost 3 years old.

And he is the reason I can't get ANYTHING done on the weekends.

He wants to sit on my lap whether I am watching TV, reading, on the computer or in the john.  That's right.  He wants to sit on my lap when anyone else would have to hold their breath just to walk into the room.  Sometimes -- not often -- Greg will let me lock the bedroom door.  Then I get to go potty and read.  Pure luxury. 

Anyway, before Mr. Miracle kept leaning on the keyboard, I was TRYING to tell you about my 5K.

I jogged the whole way (except for about 100 yards when I had something in my shoe).  Three laps.    Three. 

It took a loooooooooooong time. 

As I was starting lap #3, Victor told me that the 5K was actually a 5+K.  A 5K is 3.1 miles.  Apparently 3 laps around our campus is 4.2 miles.  Wow.

My personal best was really a personal best!

And of course, at the finish line, people were cheering me on.  I think they may have been thinking "For God's sake when is she going to get here?  We can't sit here all day."  If they were thinking that, they didn't let on.  They were super awesome. 

The best part was that Gabe won!  (remember him? the meanest ever?) He won the whole thing!  He ran 4.2 miles in like 20 minutes.  I can't even drive that fast.  He rocks.

After the race, I came home to my family.  I sat on the couch.  I tried to get up. I screamed in pain.

Apparently, running 4.2 miles makes you really really sore.

And it chafes a little. 

So I spent the rest of the weekend holding my miracle baby.

Personal Best

I ran my (technically) 4th 5K yesterday. 

I actually jogged it.

I jogged the WHOLE way.  (except for 100 yards when I had to shake something out of my shoe).

I ran with my friend Kathy, the one who has been training with the Couch to 5K program.  I started jogging, she started walking, within 5 minutes she was faaaarr ahead of me.  See you in about an hour, friend!

Actually, I have lots to tell you, but right now the almost 3 year old and the 5 year old are hanging off on me like Spanish moss. 

So I have to tell you later. 

Dammit!

One more Halloween post. . .

There has been a lot of talk on the bloggosphere about tween's costumes this year. 

Know why?  Tween slut costumes.  Read this post and this post.  I actually saw some of these for myself at the CATHOLIC School Carnival last week.  Scary! 

I don't have girls.  I don't have to worry about thigh high tights or push-up training bras.  At least not until  my boys hit puberty. . .and then I will worry for a different reason.   You know I wanna get all judgy about the moms of girls who let their daughters dress as Little Ho Peep or Slutty Red Riding Hood.  I wanna. 

Maybe I should just shuddup.

Becasue I have boys.

I worry about:

Weapons.

Bloody, gory, hurty weapons.

I have one kid who will be dressing up like Einstein.  No issues there.  One will be an Oompa Loompa.  How adorable is that going to be?????  One will be a seafaring thief/vandal/rapist/murderer -- I mean Pirate.

Pirate is a good costume, right?  Pirates are cute.   Jack Sparrow (played by my very-second-choice-for-a-husband, Johnny Depp) is downright sexy.  I know that Pirates II & III were really really sucky movies.  Johnny Depp was still dreamylishious.  Even though he looks like he'd smell.  He's still hot.  I'm getting all drooly.  Sorry. 

Why do we think pirates are cute?  Is it because they are from a bygone era?  Will kids in 2210 dress up like doe-eyed versions of Charles Manson? I shudder at the thought.

At any rate, a pirate he wants to be and a pirate he's going to be.  An adorable pirate.  With a sword.  And maybe a gun.

He wants to be a pirate because of the weapons.  I could dress him in a suit & tie and he wouldn't care as long as he got to carry the sword.  He LOVES weapons. And toy stores LOVE to sell weapons to little boys like him.

Here are some of our choices:

Be careful not to get that blood on your sister.

Because kids can't get enough of bloody chainsaws.

This looks less like a weapon and more like an instrument of torture. 

Elegant, yet effective!

My personal favorite.  This one is called "Sacrificial Dagger".  Just in case we run into any virgins. 

All sold at a Toys-R-us near you! 

So, moms of girls?

Tell Little Ho Peep to beware of Pirates. 

Should I laugh, or should I cry?

I have a close friend whose oldest child is a freshman at Texas Tech.  Texas Tech is in Lubbock, and it's pretty far from Corpus Christi. 

That makes moms worry.

It especially makes moms worry when their oldest child is an attractive, vivacious 18 year old girl.

This particular girl, Heather, is the nicest kid you can imagine.  She babysat for us occasionally, and my boys love her.  Heather is the kind of kid that makes you think that having teens might be OK.

It's still hard on her mom.

This is the e-mail I got from Amy (Heather's Mom) today:

So I read on my daughter’s FB post to her friend, “Sorry, but I had to delete your post because my Mama doesn’t know anything about that.”


Ok, I tried to let it go, but I couldn’t…she IS a teenager and that IS her “wild friend” so I texted her, “Ok, you sparked my curiosity, what doesn’t Mama know.”

About 30 minutes pass and no responsive text and then my phone rings……

“Hi, Mama, what’s up”

“That’s what I want to know”

“What do you mean? I didn’t understand your text, what do you want to know?”

“Oh please Heather, I’m talking about your FB post….”

“What?”

“So you’re going to sit there and play innocent…..remember, I was a teenager once and I’m also not naive so I know that you AND your brother do stuff I don’t know about…”

“Mom…..”

“The evidence is there, Heather, don’t deny it…..you get mad because you think I’m “creeping” on your FB but the truth is you don’t call or write me that often so I have to find out through YOUR FRIENDS what’s going on in your life (I’m choking back tears here)…..I always want you and I have to have a close relationship (now I’m crying) and that you could feel like you could tell me anything. So if you’re not going to tell me what you did, let me ask you one thing, ‘are you still a virgin’?” (You know me, the eternal pessimist and Queen of Gloom and Doom)

“Mom! GAH! Yes, I am……listen, can I call you back in 5 minutes”

“Fine!” And I hung up…I figured she was going outside so her friends wouldn’t hear her discussions with me in her dorm.

So I open my front door and Pete sees me crying…..”what’s wrong?”

“Oh, I just had a fight with your daughter….”

AND OUT SHE STEPS FROM BEHIND PETE…..THE POST HAD TO DO WITH HER COMING HOME AND SHE WANTED TO SURPRISE ME…WHAT A LOSER I AM!!!!!!!

On the one hand, this cracks me up.  Heather is the nicest kid!  She's still a college student though.  And, as Amy pointed out to her, we've all been teenagers before.  My heart sort of breaks for Amy, because I know how upset she was.  And I know that I am only a few short years away from having teens of my own.

What do you think?  Laugh or cry?

Feeling Grownup. . .

I have "officially" been an adult for 24 years.

I admit that sometimes I feel old, but I don't usually feel like a "Grownup".

Maybe it's because I am the youngest person in my office.  I dunno.

But this morning. . . .

After dropping my littles off to school, I was heading to work down a busy avenue.

Two tweeny girls were walking to school.  I knew they were tweens because they were both dressed exactly alike -- and they obviously weren't sisters.  I should say that they were both accessorized exactly alike, as they were wearing the requisite white-polo-khaki-pants uniform.   They each wore pink hoodies, identical pink sketchers and carried identical Justin backpacks.  They each wore their hair tied in a pink chongo on top of their heads.  They walked with that self-conscious gait that tweens have.  They were cute.

Then, one of them tosses her Red-Bull can on the ground.

Excuse me?

Were you born in a BARN?

Without thinking, I pulled my car into the median, rolled down the window, and in my best MOM voice, yelled:

"Sweetie!  Pick up that can you dropped!  Find a trash can and throw it away.  I KNOW you know better."

Slightly chagrined, Tween picked it up.  Good girl.

MOM voice said:  "Thank you, honey.  Have a good day, okay?"

It was a reminder that I am.

I am.

I am a GROWNUP.

Kids have to listen to me.

I can boss them around if I want. 

All I have to do is use that voice that all my mom's friends used on me when I was a kid.  Mrs. Klumb, Mrs. McHugh, Mrs. Kennedy, Mrs. Reeves.  All the great ladies of my youth were with me as I gently but firmly corrected a young lady.

Sure, they can cuss & smoke and do rebellious things when I am not there.  Sure, Tween might have tossed the can back on the ground as soon as I left.

But I am going to give her the benefit of the doubt. 

She knows she has to listen to a grownup.

Doing it all. . .

Are you impressed with me that I an a mother of three, work a full time job, blog, go to graduate school, blog, workout regularly, blog, and volunteer at my church?

Don't be.

Because there is no way I could do it without my husband.

Husbands are funny.  Wives like to get together and roll our eyes over the silly things they do.  Like teach our children to burp their ABCs.  At least they know their ABC's right?

My husband works two jobs -- three if you count the "architect-on-loan" deal he is doing right now.  My husband works most of the weekend, because architects are all about deadlines.  And budgets, which is why he doesn't bill most of his weekend work.

My husband does the dishes every night.  We don't own a dishwasher, and he can't stand to see dirty dishes left over night (I can), so he does them. 

My husband really likes our kids.  I like 'em too, but Greg thinks playing with them is the funnest thing since skateboarding.

My husband gets that my job is super important to the family because there is less a threat of layoff as with his, and because I carry the insurance.  He also gets that I really enjoy it.  He supports me going to school because he knows that I need a Masters in order to move ahead. 

He supports me volunteering at church.  Really, we're both volunteering.  I am at the church, he is at home with the boys.  Believe me, both are important.

He doesn't read my blog unless I make him.  Which is good, because he would be super embarrassed if he knew that I was writing about him.

I just thought you should know. 

It's my husband that enables me to do it all. .. .

I don't know how he does it!

O To Be A Child Again. . .

Yesterday my 2 older boys stayed home from school.  They weren't sick or anything -- Joseph's pet jellyfish were being delivered yesterday, and they wanted to make sure to be home for delivery. 

Yeah, we have jellyfish for pets.

After the pets made it into their tank safely, I wanted to work out. 

I actually wanted to.  Weird, right?

We packed a bag full of toys & books and headed out to V-Fit.

The toys and books amused the boys for 25 seconds.

Hardly anyone was there, so it was OK for them to walk around a bit. I was doing jump squats.  Jump squats aren't my favorite.  Especially when I have to do 4 sets of 25.  Especially when the boys thought the squats looked like fun, so they decided to do it too. 

When I do jump squats, I jump-squat-grunt.  Sometimes I jump-grunt-squat. 

When my boys do jump squats, they jump-say WHEE-squat-giggle.Then they say "Look, I can go fast!" and do about 30 in quick succession with perfect form and don't sweat.

Then it was time to do these horrible things where I sit on the floor, balance on my butt, keep my feet 6 inches off the floor, and take a 4 lb medicine ball and weave it in a figure 8 around my legs.  When you do it right, it looks really, really smooth.  When you've had 3 C-Sections, it doesn't look quite so pretty. 

Plus, it's hard to keep everything in.  In other words, I go grunt-weave-pfft-grunt-weave-repeat.  The "pfft" part made my boys laugh hysterically.  Especially because I have always told them that going pfft is very rude.

Only Daddies go "pfft". 

Never mommies.

Next I did leg presses on the machine.  Luke wanted to sit on my lap, but I said no.

"Is it because it will make you fart again?" 

"No!  Just go play for 5 minutes, willya?"

Finally it was time to do the pit.  My boys love the pit.  They run down, say "Chase me Mama!" and scoot back up.  Over and over.  Laughing and giggling while I wheeze and huff.

"Mama - remember when you were playing with that ball and you farted?  That was funny!" said Joe, as if it happened years ago and not just 30 minutes ago.

Finally it was time to leave.

We see Victor on the way out.  Victor cut his hair short, which really brings out his big brown eyes, his lantern jaw and shows the sinewy muscles of his neck. Sigh.

Victor says "Hey!  How was the work out?!"

Luke says "Mama farted!"

That kid is lucky to still be alive.

Bless Me Father, for I Have Mooned

We went to the Last Chance Mass on Sunday – 6pm. For us Catholics, keeping the Sabbath holy means getting to mass on Sunday. (We also strive to rest, meditate, do good deeds, spend time with family . . . but most importantly – get your ass to mass!)

Because it was the Last Chance Mass, it was also the “Come as You Are” Mass. In other words – jeans are fine. Just wipe the peanut butter off the kids and strap them in the car seat because we gotta go.

Please know: this is not a complaint. I love going to mass. I love it. I love the fellowship, I love the mystery, the prayer . . . I love spending time with my Jesus surrounded by my family. I am a Catholic by birth, yes. More importantly, I am a Catholic by choice.

One of the things I LOVE about my tribe is that we have so many opportunities to get to mass. You can go late Saturday, early Sunday, not-so-early Sunday, noon Sunday, or Late Sunday. This week, we chose late Sunday.

Because our kiddos are little, we generally split our masses. Greg likes going late Sunday, I like going Sunday morning. That way we don’t always have to take the 5 year old & 2 year old. To kids that age, a 45 minute mass is eternity. If a certain priest is giving the homily, make that eternity plus 15 minutes. (Sorry Father, but it’s the truth.)

This week, we didn’t divide and conquer. We took everybody.

When we take whole family, my husband goes into the pew first. The 8 year old is next. Then the 5 year old, me & the 2 year old bring up the rear. We kneel and say a pre-mass prayer. At this point the 5 year old – who will never admit to being tired under any other circumstance – is suddenly exhausted. He immediately lies down on my lap. The 8 year old will decide that sitting upright is too much of an effort, so he leans against my other side. The 2 year old then proceeds to climb me like a jungle gym. Meanwhile, my husband is sitting a little apart, comfortably listening to the readings.

When it’s time to stand, I pick up 2 year old and nudge the older boys reluctantly to their feet. Then 2 year old decides he’s had enough and shimmies down. As soon as his feet touch the terrazzo floor, he begins to climb again. And on we go.

We’re not unique – look around and every family with small children is doing some variation of the same dance.

This Sunday, there was a new twist to the mass dance.

As 5 year old leaned and 2 year old climbed, my jeans started to scoot south. I hitched them up as best as I could, retrieved 2 year old from his 10 seconds on the floor and tried to listen to the gospel. Bored with his 20 seconds in my arms, 2 year old climbed down again. And took my jeans with him.

My 2 year old literally pulled my pants off during mass.

That means that half the church plus the choir loft saw my blue-polka-dot-boy-shorts from Lane Bryant.

Thank GOD I didn’t wear a thong.