Hail Mary

I am 95% seriously considering never taking my children to church again, because each and every week they use the lessons in the sermon against me. Here I am, trying to apply pastoral wisdom and focus on “unapologetic kindness” and you wanna look me right in the face and tell me that the games on your iPad are not my business. And last week, while I was praying tranquility over my life, my son pooped his actual pants in the middle of the Dollar Tree. I mean, golly. Allow me to introduce myself: I am the human being who literally brought you into this world. I’m pretty sure we both know who paid for that there iPad AND the WiFi it’s running on. And at least one of us knows that there’s no way I’m buying you a toy now. Instead, I’m gonna use that $1 for some baby wipes to sanitize both you and my new iPad, while you are officially grounded.

Have kids, they said. It’ll be fun, they said. I’m here to tell you they were sort of fibbing. Sure, there are snuggles and lots of hilarious moments and a variety of Norman Rockwell scenes. But nobody can test your resolve better than the miniature version of yourself who plowed through your body with its bulbous baby head. There is no spouse, no coworker, no horrible boss who can test the Jesus in you like your children. God, in His wisdom, makes babies cute enough that we’re willing to spend every penny of disposable income on them. He also makes their parents so sleep deprived that they’re too confused to plot a murder once those babies grow large enough to deliver sass by the shovelful.

There’s no school tomorrow and I’ll also be watching an extra child, so I’m currently building myself a supply kit to last through the wild rumpus of Martin Luther King Jr Day 2020. And, by “kit”, I mean a 50 gallon drum of ibuprofen and a block of chocolate roughly the size of a Tesla. I plan on piping Enya through my Bluetooth headphones all day while frantically drilling for a fresh well of unapologetic kindness. The forecast is calling for a dry day tomorrow, but I’m pretty sure that taking my children to church is the spiritual equivalent of a rain dance. It’s gonna storm all doggone day, because nothing tests my resolve like six children, trapped inside and hosting Lord of the Flies in my living room all day.

Another federal holiday, another day to wish I could drink wine. Pray for me in my hours of need, y’all. Better yet: pray for the plague of Egypt preparing to descend upon my house tomorrow. The only person guaranteed to survive the day is the extra kid, partially because she’s not mine to murder but mostly because she’s the only one too young to tell me “no”.