Sunday Mornings

Once again, I'm starting my blog with a thank you to my parents. EVERY Sunday (unless someone was puking) my parents loaded all of us up and we went to mass. EVERY Sunday. And when I was younger, it was an 8:00 am mass. Did I mention we went EVERY Sunday? I credit them with my faith today. I'm so grateful for growing up in a religious, faith-based home. It's made me who I am, and hopefully, I'm passing that on to my girls. And now, as with other blog posts, after the thank you to Mom and Dad comes: How in the he&$ did you survive?! I can barely make it through our 9:30 mass with a fourth of the children my parents had. It's like a three ring circus every Sunday. I know we regularly provide comic relief for the "lucky" souls who sit behind us. And the things I've learned in mass. . . Stinkus can chuck a crayon three pews ahead of us and manage not to hit anyone. Don't interrupt Sassy when she's feeding her baby: "But Mommy!!!! Da baby's eating from my BOOOOOBIE!" (Extra emphasis and volume on "Boobie.") Tiny bodies can crawl away under pews. The quiet time after Communion is the PERFECT time to break out in a rousing rendition of "Jingle Bells." Telling Daddy, "I take YOU outside and pank YOUR bottom!" makes it really hard for Daddy to keep a straight face.

Someone is always hot, or hungry, or thirsty. Or we've packed the coloring books but no crayons. Someone wants held, or put down, or held again. If nothing else, wrestling little people makes for a good workout. I really don't know how my parents did it.

Sassy's getting easier and more involved now that she can read. She loves to follow along with the readings and boy, can that girl sing. She hasn't quite figured out volume control though and she belts out songs in her loudest voice, oblivious to the grins and chuckles she's getting. Today I had to tell her that it was "people of good WILL," not good health, though that's important too. :) The "Alleluia" response gets both of them competing for a non-existent "Who Can Sing the Loudest" contest; even better is when Stinkus continues after everyone else has stopped.

And despite how worn out, tired, and frustrated I get, it all seems worth it at the end of mass when both are shouting "Father, Son, and Holy Spirit" and doing something that better resembles some crazy baseball signs rather than the Sign of the Cross. But they'll get it. And they ARE getting it. Every Sunday.