No Under Pants at Church!

"No Under Pants at church!" I shriek, um, reverently at my son as he struggles to button his church slacks over his sweatpants. My daughter, prim and beautiful in her white flowered dress, snickers at my choice of words.

"Mama, I'm all ready. May I play outside until it's time to go?" I give her neatly combed hair, clean face and buckled shoes a once over and nod her out the door as the baby spits up on her second church dress that morning.

"Sweetheart? Will you grab another dress for the baby while you're looking for this sweet boy's tie?" My husband grumbles past me, holding five different black socks. "ONE! I would just like ONE pair of matching socks! Is this too much to ask?!" Sheesh! A person gets a little bit behind on laundry for a week or two or three and she never hears the end of it!

"Have you checked the clean clothes basket? The dryer? That, uh, pile of clean clothes between the dryer and the basket? Um, did you happen to get that dress?" Was that a dirty look I just got from my beloved? I feel a sudden desire to pick out the baby's dress myself this time.

I return to the livingroom just in time to catch my boy trying to sneak out to play with his sister. "BLACK socks, son. And church shoes; not sandals."

"Mama, these socks are almost black. They are dark gray!"

"They USED to be white though, so they don't count. Black socks, please. And an undershirt with sleeves shorter than your church shirt's sleeves."

"But, Mama! This is my favorite shirt!"

"It will still be your favorite shirt when you change back into it after church. Now, please!" Was that a dirty look I just got from my darling baby boy for whom I labored 56 hours to bring into the world? How soon they forget our sacrifices!

"Two minutes!" calls my husband from the laundry room.

I wrestle my baby into her third dress and give her shoe to her to chew on for a while so I can chug down a protein shake for my breakfast, now that it is way past noon. Passing the kitchen window, I look out and see my daughter over by their fort, paintbrush in hand, huge smile of satisfaction on her face. Oh, no. I thought they used all the rest of their paint defacing our fence last week. I quickly open the window.

"Sweetheart? What are you doing?"

"Painting our fort!" Duh, Mama.

"With what?"

"I don't know. This stuff." She points to the black bowl-like thing that really closely resembles my husband's oil pan that he used to change our oil yesterday. That "paint" really closely resembles old oil too. Huh.

"Please come in for a minute, Sweetheart!" Did my voice just raise six octaves? I close my eyes as she gets closer, trying to forget what I had just seen. My one child who had been ready on time did not just have nasty motor oil smeared across her cheek and slopped down her white dress, I'm sure.

Ten minutes later, I finally have her scrubbed up, stuffed into another outfit, and have hosed her dress down with Shout, which I am extremely doubtful will work. I take a look at my family as we gather by the door to leave. My husband did find two matching socks, and has sweetly loaded himself down with all 62 of my bags that I take to church, as well as several protein shakes, since he knows I never got around to eating. My son has on a red T-shirt with a huge baseball slogan under his white church shirt, but at least the sleeves are shorter now. I can see the waist band of his sweatpants sticking out over the back of his slacks. Grayish socks are almost all the way hidden under his black socks in his untied church shoes. My daughter looks rumpled and a little grumpy that she didn't get to wear her white dress anyway. My baby has spit up in her shoe and on the floor, and is happily splashing her hand in it, smearing it around.

Just another peaceful Sunday morning.



"Mama! The baby smells funny! I think she just pooped. EW! I think it's leaking out!"