Today was Palm Sunday. Every Sunday I truck my kids to Mass, and it seems no matter how hard I try, I always end up being 5-10 minutes late. It drives me crazy. It's difficult to accept that I have limitations, but for my own sanity, I have learned to accept it.
Palm Sunday is, however, its own kind of crazy.
Here's how it went:
At 7:00 am, my darling children awoke me as per usual by crawling all over me, jumping on my stomach, putting their elbows in my face, and in general, treating me like the human jungle-gym that I am. I dragged myself out of bed and changed baby boy's poo filled atrocity, ran downstairs to grab clothes from the dryer and came back upstairs.
"Mommy, can I do a craft?"
"Sure, baby."
"Mama! Me eat!"
Get breakfast.
"Mamamamamamamamamamamamama!!!!"
Pick up baby boy.
Clean up breakfast.
Clean up glue.
Yes, that's a lovely picture of us.
"Mommy, how do you spell your name?"
Get two year old dressed.
Shower (mamamamamamamamamamamama!!!)
"MOMMY! SHE IS TRYING TO WRECK MY CRAFT!!!"
Get 5 year old dressed.
Grab snacks.
"B, get your shoes and coat on please."
Put two year old's shoes on.
"B, honey, you need to put your shoes and coat on."
Put two year old's coat on.
"Do you have your coat on yet?'
Put baby boy's coat and shoes on.
"Seriously, how do you not have your coat and shoes on yet????"
At this point, I hauled each of the kids, one at a time, into the van. Luckily (or maybe miraculously), my oldest ended up buckled in by the time I get the other two in and am ready to leave.
For those of you who don't attend mass or church services, there's a funny Christian, or maybe just Catholic tradition, that states that 75% of Catholics only go to church on Christmas and Easter. They also happen to show up on Palm Sunday. Knowing this, I decided to forgo trying to find a close spot and just parked in the back, which was a wise decision.
We trouped ourselves 10 minutes late into the service and immediately went to get palms. I got one for each of us and let the girls hold theirs. The palm fronds are a tradition whereby Catholics participate in the history of Christ's entrance into the city of Jerusalem. They are also used by Catholic children everywhere as devices for the sole purpose of torturing adults by way of swinging, tickling, swatting, and poking anything within a 20 foot radius. I don't know how they reach that far, but trust me, they do.
We met my parents in the pew. During mass, the two year old hopped around, the 5 year old fed her brother, the girls bickered about who got to eat that one particular craisin, and the baby managed to almost escape by crawling under cover of the pew to the outside aisle.
As a child, I remember Palm Sunday being the longest. Mass. Ever. You had to stand for what seemed like eternity and if you didn't pay attention, you'd miss the only exciting tidbits where the congregation gets to speak their parts in the crucifixion drama. It only happens about 5 times in the 20 minute reading. As an adult with small children, I barely could focus on anything that was happening because I was too busy trying to keep the 5 year old from falling off the pew when she insisted on standing on it so she could get the food to her brother while we were standing for the gospel. On the plus side, she only almost fell to her doom 3 or 4 times before I gave up and put him on the floor so she wouldn't have to stand there for him to reach. (This was the point when he almost escaped, by the way).
Tl; dr: Palm Sunday is the longest mass when you are a little kid trying to sit through it, but bringing 3 small children makes it go by faster than a cheetah on Red Bull.
When we went to our weekly Sunday visit with Grandma and Grandpa, we dyed some Easter eggs, watched Frozen and played the day away.
What a wonderful world we would live in if every day was like this Sunday.
Palm Sunday is, however, its own kind of crazy.
Here's how it went:
At 7:00 am, my darling children awoke me as per usual by crawling all over me, jumping on my stomach, putting their elbows in my face, and in general, treating me like the human jungle-gym that I am. I dragged myself out of bed and changed baby boy's poo filled atrocity, ran downstairs to grab clothes from the dryer and came back upstairs.
"Mommy, can I do a craft?"
"Sure, baby."
"Mama! Me eat!"
Get breakfast.
"Mamamamamamamamamamamamama!!!!"
Pick up baby boy.
Clean up breakfast.
Clean up glue.
Yes, that's a lovely picture of us.
"Mommy, how do you spell your name?"
Get two year old dressed.
Shower (mamamamamamamamamamamama!!!)
"MOMMY! SHE IS TRYING TO WRECK MY CRAFT!!!"
Get 5 year old dressed.
Grab snacks.
"B, get your shoes and coat on please."
Put two year old's shoes on.
"B, honey, you need to put your shoes and coat on."
Put two year old's coat on.
"Do you have your coat on yet?'
Put baby boy's coat and shoes on.
"Seriously, how do you not have your coat and shoes on yet????"
At this point, I hauled each of the kids, one at a time, into the van. Luckily (or maybe miraculously), my oldest ended up buckled in by the time I get the other two in and am ready to leave.
For those of you who don't attend mass or church services, there's a funny Christian, or maybe just Catholic tradition, that states that 75% of Catholics only go to church on Christmas and Easter. They also happen to show up on Palm Sunday. Knowing this, I decided to forgo trying to find a close spot and just parked in the back, which was a wise decision.
We trouped ourselves 10 minutes late into the service and immediately went to get palms. I got one for each of us and let the girls hold theirs. The palm fronds are a tradition whereby Catholics participate in the history of Christ's entrance into the city of Jerusalem. They are also used by Catholic children everywhere as devices for the sole purpose of torturing adults by way of swinging, tickling, swatting, and poking anything within a 20 foot radius. I don't know how they reach that far, but trust me, they do.
We met my parents in the pew. During mass, the two year old hopped around, the 5 year old fed her brother, the girls bickered about who got to eat that one particular craisin, and the baby managed to almost escape by crawling under cover of the pew to the outside aisle.
As a child, I remember Palm Sunday being the longest. Mass. Ever. You had to stand for what seemed like eternity and if you didn't pay attention, you'd miss the only exciting tidbits where the congregation gets to speak their parts in the crucifixion drama. It only happens about 5 times in the 20 minute reading. As an adult with small children, I barely could focus on anything that was happening because I was too busy trying to keep the 5 year old from falling off the pew when she insisted on standing on it so she could get the food to her brother while we were standing for the gospel. On the plus side, she only almost fell to her doom 3 or 4 times before I gave up and put him on the floor so she wouldn't have to stand there for him to reach. (This was the point when he almost escaped, by the way).
Tl; dr: Palm Sunday is the longest mass when you are a little kid trying to sit through it, but bringing 3 small children makes it go by faster than a cheetah on Red Bull.
When we went to our weekly Sunday visit with Grandma and Grandpa, we dyed some Easter eggs, watched Frozen and played the day away.
What a wonderful world we would live in if every day was like this Sunday.
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