It’s Sunday. The Lord’s Day. And lordy, what a day.

Church has always been a bit of a battle for this family. First of all, it requires getting up. Out of bed. And getting dressed. And that’s quite unreasonable, according to some, well all, other members of this family. Just today, Baba informed me that she would like to take showers on Sunday mornings instead of Saturday nights. I told her that was a perfectly acceptable option, but it did mean that she would have to get up early enough to do it. Her response was “yeah, you’ll just have to get me up earlier.”

It’s getting easier, as the father figure doesn’t work on Sundays anymore. At some point in time I put my foot down and refused to go it alone. And by alone, I mean alone with the kids. I think it was the day that left me wondering  what my favorite part of church was. Was it Baby and Mac working on letter sounds, Baby loudly correcting all errors? Was it Mac shoving Baba out of the pew to communion yelling "come on. Let's go!" Was it Baby weeping the whole time because I wouldn't let her use my skirt as a blanket? Or was it Mac wailing "I can't do this. I'm too little!"

Mac did explain his objection to church “it’s weird.” What’s weird about it? “The being quiet part.” Rest assured, the doughnuts are not weird, he likes his doughnuts. Mac’s also the only kid I know who ends up with a bloody nose during Vacation Bible School. Somehow that doesn’t strike him as weird.

I’m not certain as to how the kids can attend the same service,  52 times a year, and still not know what’s going on. I’m mean, why else would they start asking “how much longer?” “When’s church going to be over?” the minute we walk in the door. Followed by the most important question “Are there doughnuts? Where are the doughnuts? When do I get some?”

Not that it’s a wasted effort or anything. Mac likes to talk about all the “God stuff” he sees. I’m not certain that he realizes that doughnuts don’t qualify as “God stuff.” He’s stopped plugging his ears during the singing. Today he was singing, quite nicely I might add, along with the rest of the conregation. His lyrics were “blah blah blah blah.” The tempo and tuning was on point, so I rolled with it.

It’s fairly mild behavior from the child who walked in, sat down, stood up, stared down his pants for a good minute and then announced “yep, I did put my underwear on.”