Sunday morning with kids

Spirituality never happened before noon, and rarely after dinner.  “Get in the car,” I said.  “We’ll eat on the way to Sunday School.”  I ripped open a box of generic brand Cheerios called “Hoops of Joy,” and poured a mound into each outstretched hand.

The drive negated any possible hope for a divine experience.  “I get the front!” a screech emanated from the passenger window.  Hot Wheelz thumped CoCo, the screecher, on the head.  I opened the backdoor and gently shoved Cheezy into the aging hatchback.  “Ugh,” The GAP blurted, squeezing her eyes shut, “finish getting dressed.”  CoCo refused to budge from the front seat.  Hot Wheelz thrust himself next to her, pressing her against the door during the longest ten block trip ever.  He stopped long enough to gulp a swig of milk from the open half-gallon as it was passed around.

When we arrived, Hot Wheelz swung the door open and yanked CoCo out by her arm.  She refused to back down.  The GAP and a rumpled, but clad Cheezy unfolded from the back.  Hot Wheelz stood at attention.  Shirttails half in, half out.  White socks with dress shoes.  I noticed because one pant leg caught in a white sock.  His hair messed up in the scrimmage for the front seat.  I was too exhausted to be amused.  “You look like crap,” I said, taking advantage of the teaching moment.  His eyes welled up and he refused to go inside with a red nose.

Sundays were always special.  And thus ended my seventh day in another perfect week as a single mom.

Related posts:

1. The secret of coping with bad days
2. List for the doctor
3. Family vacation nightmare
4. Let me introduce you to my family
5. What’s in your purse?