Well, I wasn’t the mom whose kid blew his nose on her skirt during church. So there’s that.

                             

Church was particularly challenging. I need to change churches; it’s as simple as that. I need to be at a church that has chairs and not benches because, dang nab it I NEED MY SPACE!!!!!!  My children are trying to share my skin. Not it a “you ruined my life and now I’m a serial killer” sort of way.  But the “I luv you SOOOOO much and am pretty sure that I am pushing the boundaries of socially acceptable behavior and so I will try to cuddle with you and hope you forget” kinda way.  At least the serial killers take your head and then leave you alone.

I begrudge Cinco nothing. Mostly because she’s a baby, but also because she’s consistently my best behaved child. She sat pleasantly on my lap and observed the antics of her older siblings.  Mac wrapped his arms around one of my arms and batted his eyes angelically. “Aren’t I doing a good job mom?” “Uh, man did you brush your teeth today?” “Uh no, I forgot.” “How did you forget? I told you three times.” “Well I forgot because I didn’t want to. And I had to do my haircut”

Ah yes, Mac’s haircut. Until last Friday, Mac’s personal stylist was Calvin of Hobbes. I would comb his hair and then find him hiding behind doors messing it back up. As we have a family wedding this weekend, I found it necessary to take him to the barber. She cut it short, after observing that his hair grew in every direction. The little that left lays very flat, much to Mac’s delight. Which is very new. But whatever, he combs his hair three times a day.

So there was Mac on one side, carrying on a conversation with me, while Baba had her arms wrapped around me. She was actively trying to bury into me with her head. There was about seventeen acres of real estate between me and the father figure, who  was sitting calmly as X-Man chanted “No, no, no. no.” Which is his general attitude towards church. That is until the doughnuts come out.  Meanwhile I was actually wearing three other people.

Baby wearing’s for slacker moms. Grade schooler wearing is where it’s at.

It’s rare that I am grateful for X-Man’s heretical attitudes towards organized religions and the buildings in which they gather. But eventually his vocal objections grew unignorable and his overwhelming desire to be removed from the premises by non-other than his mother actually played to my advantage. It’s one thing for a toddler to scream “Put me down, leave me alone, no, no, no.” Quite another when it’s the mother.