I feel as though I have neglected to do my duty by not posting on Easter. I was too busy actually celebrating Easter. To assuage that particular guilt I've added a little somethin' at the end of this post that'll make ya stand up and cheer. Or at least make your heart swell with joy. If it don't, "Honey, you dead." I've posted it before, early in my bloggy career, but felt it was/is appropriate for Easter. Even if it's a day late. Not Easter, this post. Oh, boy, maybe I should go call it a day and go back to bed.
(There is a family joke at my expense. When someone is about to tell a story, they ask, "Do you want the Jubilee version, or the short version? This, dear reader is the Jubilee version of events. Read on at your own risk. I'm just sayin'.)
Official Jubilant Proclamation With Lots of Annoying Capitalization:
Yesterday shall hereafter be remembered as The Easter To Not Remember.
Yesterday dawned full of promise and sunshine. (See, already the day began on a surreal note. Sunshine -- this early in spring -- in Ohio? Yeah, in Ohio.) The kids woke up bright and early, and attempted to pull me out of bed a handful of times before I relented. It took a full 3 1/2 seconds for them to remember that baskets may be waiting for them.
A mountain of foil wrappers and cellophane later, they were safely tucked in front of the tv so Mommy could shower in relative solitude. I do covet my alone time. I know you aren't supposed to covet. Call me a work in progress.
Upon arrival at church, I realized with a sinking heart and rising blood pressure that Easter (along with Christmas) hails a cherished church tradition: children sitting with their parents in stead of going to their own classes. In a few years, I, too, may learn to cherish this tradition, but then again, as long as Whirling Dervish is a part of the Jubilant family, I may not.
As we were right on time (an Easter miracle itself) and the sanctuary was packed, we could not slink to my usual seat in the back. So, I marched the children up front as if I weren't about to be held hostage behind a facade of enjoying myself. The Jubilant children, I must confess were even less overjoyed at the prospect of going to Big Church.
Whirling Dervish lived up to his name, as I knew he would. Lest you think, dear reader, that I think my son is a horrible child, rest assured, I do not. He is a great kid. A wonderfully bright and energetic kid.
Emphasis on energetic.
To the sweet little girl who sat in front of us: You, little one are an angel for ignoring all the kicks to your chair and the small, equally angelic face peering up and around your shoulder for a better look at your lovely face. Forgive him.
To her long suffering grandpa: You sir are a study in patience. Please understand that your broad shoulders are such a temptation. My son could not help but poke at them. Please forgive him.
To our pastor: It's not that your sermon wasn't engaging, it's just that my three year old son is still learning to appreciate the finer points of church etiquette. Though I will try, I cannot promise that he'll never again yell out, "Are we done, yet?" at each quiet, thoughtful pause in your wonderful message. Again, forgiveness, please?
It can be argued that I should have taken my youngest out of the service so as not to be a distraction to others. However, that would have meant dragging my children out of the service to the witness of all 500 congregants. Did I mention we couldn't sit in our usual back-of-the-church seats?
I had to weigh my options: 1). apologize profusely to angelic little girl and her long suffering grandpa after the service or B). embarrass myself by dragging three children out of the service with one of them invariably using his outside voice, "WHY WE WEAVING, MOMMY? IS IT OBER?" Right or wrong, I chose option 1.
And after the service, I had no less than four little gray haired ladies tell me how well behaved my children are during church. Thank goodness for the aging affects on eyesight and hearing.
Or perhaps that was just their way of encouraging a harried mother of three.
I'm not sure, but somewhere in the Bible, perhaps is a verse or two that talks about mothers being rewarded for living through (and letting their children live through) such events. Maybe. And then again, maybe not.
At any rate I've gotten a reward that any mother can appreciate: grandparents who take their grandchildren off of their frazzled daughter in law's hands for a couple of days. And there in lies my own mini miracle of Easter. I hope that isn't irreverent. I certainly don't intend for it to be disrespectful. I am just thankful.
And really, really joyful!
And here's the gem of a video that I promised a the top of the post. You've earned it. Enjoy.