I wish I could say that we go to church every Sunday or even belong to one but we don’t.  We’re sinners that way … among other ways.  This past weekend though, we attended the Hubs’ adorable cousin’s quinceanera.  It’s basically a coming of age birthday party that involves a grand ballroom, a fabulous dress, and enough food and dancing to make you wish you were 15 again … or at least 28 … actually, 34 would work too.  Oh, and church.  It involves church.

We knew this going in, of course.  Everyone kept saying it’s a FULL Catholic mass.  Is there any other kind?  I guess there must be abbreviated ones (you’d think I’d know since I was raised Catholic).  But the way everyone kept saying “FULL” – with eyes the size of a tarsier (google it), head gradually dipping while the word slowly left their mouth (as if you’re an idiot who doesn’t understand what the word ‘full’ means) and the ‘f’ making the same ‘f’ sound you make when pronouncing the word “fuck” (yeah, THAT f), made me a little leary.  And by leary I mean that dreaded feeling when you know everything is gonna go to shit and there’s not a blessed thing you can do about it.

My plan was to stay at the hotel with the kids.  No such luck.  My mother-in-law gave me a look like I had just given the middle finger to Jesus Christ himself and then proceeded to tell me it would be “good for the kids”.

Ok, plan B.  We will sit in the waaaaaaaaay back and sneak out when the shit hits the fan … like Guy pronouncing loudly during the sermon “THIS IS BORING!” or “WHY IS HE WEARING A DRESS?”, but the Hub’s Aunt was insistent that we sit with the family up front.  I seriously love this woman and lying in the house of God seemed criminal on 20 different levels, but I could feel myself about to spout any kind of fib to get out of being in the front of the church – diarrhea usually shuts people up.  I sucked it up though – I really do adore her.  Plus, maybe my mother-in-law was right.  Maybe this was good for the kids.

I positioned myself as far away from the boys as possible.  This sounds mean, I know, but they were going to be the hardest to deal with and why shouldn’t the Hubs suffer some too?  Plus he’s more Christ-like than me.  Somehow we lucked out and, about 5 minutes in, this was Guy …

asleep in church

Sweet Jesus on a cracker!!  God really was on my side!  Maybe I should start attending church more often.  That’s when I noticed that AD was starting to nudge Guy … feeling it was unfair that Guy was able to sleep through this thing while he was in agony.  I started giving him those mom eyes – you know the ones, bulging out of their sockets and, if you had the ability to have them physically pop out of your head and lunge at him, you would totally do it.  Oh, yeah, and the tight lips that are mouthing things like “NO!” and “Knock it off!”.  Meanwhile, the Hubs, who is physically closer to the boys than I am is blissfully ignorant of what’s going on.  In fact, I may have caught him singing a hymn.  Wtf.

We’re on page 2 now of a 117 page booklet for the ceremony, when AD starts giving me the pained eyes … like “I can’t survive this.  I’m going to die.  Please someone kill me now.”  I want to at least make it to Communion!  Everyone knows you can bail after communion – I’m pretty sure this is some Catholic secret that has been passed down from generation to generation.  In the meantime, Munch is asking me why we have to stand so much.  “Because you’re supposed to suffer like Jesus,” I pull out of my ass say and she gives me a guilty look like “OH” and puts her too tight, ragingly uncomfortable shoes back on … I guess she wanted the full blown suffering experience.  Apparently I’ve taught her well.  And, on a pain scale, every woman knows an ill-fitted pair of shoes is eerily similar to being nailed to a cross.

So during communion, I scurry the older two out (Guy is still quietly sleeping – god bless his little heart) while the Hubs gives me a scathing look for leaving early.  Truth be told, we had been in there for over an hour and there were still 56 pages left.  I was starting to give him the same looks AD had given me earlier.  I’m a baby that way.

We stealthily sneak out in the chaos of communion – and by chaos I mean everyone waiting in line in an orderly fashion in silent prayer – went outside and hung out with the Virgin Mary … a statue who was missing her thumbs, poor thing.  I then proceeded to randomly receive questions from my warped lovely and curious children regarding the Immaculate Conception.  Don’t ask.  About 3 questions in, one containing incessant giggling and the word ‘penis’, I started responding with “I don’t know” and “this conversation is officially over” until they eventually moved on to obsessing about Mary’s missing thumbs.  I don’t know what I would have done if that Mary had had all 10 fingers.

So we survived.  But I learned a very valuable lesson … I think it has something to do with not having thumbs, but I have a kid screaming in my ear right now, so you’re just gonna have to make up your own lesson.

READ THE BIBLE … that was it!

P.S. I’m pretty sure I’m going to hell for this post.


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