So today: Palm Sunday, sort of a big deal to us Jesus Freaks. The complications: one kid with a game at 7:30 am (uh), one at 9 am, and then my husband had his own game at 11am. Throw in some storms, some carpooling, and I came up with this whacked out plan that one would get to his "church school" class - he has his First Communion in a few short weeks - and the rest of us would go to the later Mass for Palm Sunday. Which was during Phil's game - so this meant I would be taking all of them on my own.
Usually we put the two little ones in the nursery, so why didn't I do that? I don't know. The later mass gets close to Margaux's naptime, and I didn't want her just falling asleep on the nursery floor, and then having to wake her up, which would ruin her nap - and my (oh so selfish am I!) day. So I brought them all!
|At least we got our Jesus Sticks!|
And then the Gospel starts, and I make eyes at the older kids to pay attention, while Sylvie is digging in my purse for hand sanitizer. She gets some, and somehow gives some to Margaux, who somehow gets some in her mouth, and starts spitting and crying. I feel the eyes of the rich orthodontist - the one with the beautiful blonde 6 foot tall wife and their perfect children - boring into my back. I call uncle. We shuffle out sans Communion.
We're going to try it again this week for Stations of the Cross. I hope this is what Jesus meant when he said Pick Up Your Cross.