Tuesday, May 28, 2013

Why I Hate Sundays

First, I have 9 o’clock church. I wake up about 6:30 every morning, including Sundays. But for some reason 2 ½ hours is not enough time to get myself, 2 children and a husband ready. I shower, put on make-up, get breakfast, get the girls dressed and their hair done. All the while having to prompt Brent to get in the shower, do his hair, turn off the TV, get off the computer. I then have to find his belt, pack a diaper bag, get my hair done. Multiple times through out the morning I have to throw one or more members of my family out of the bathroom so I am not tripping over them. They each take a turn or all pile in to either stare at me or be under foot so I have to take 15 extra steps to grab a q tip instead of just reaching for one. I have to keep one eye alert to who is close to the curling iron in an effort to prevent Sunday morning burning. I herd my children and husband into the car. Brent has no concept of the need to hurry. He plods along slow and steady and has little care about my nerves frazzling as I twitch all morning long.

We arrive at church and have to find somewhere my children will be contain, but close enough to the door for a speeding exit when the inevitable tantrum or bathroom break occurs. I have to pray my goldfish/pretzel supply outlasts the speaker, and on High Council day my faith is tested.

The speaker is finished and all the mothers sigh a little sigh of relief knowing they have managed to control their children for 65-70 minutes and behavior will be a primary teacher's problem soon. Then our beloved bishop, a kind and righteous man whom I respect and care about,  rises on a day he isn’t conducting. I cringed inside and a wave of panic washes across me as I frantically eye the goldfish and see the empty Ziploc bag. He adds his testimony and experiences to the topic of the speakers and those extra 5-10 minutes stretches myself and my children to the breaking point. My baby seems to be programmed with an automatic switch that allows 65-70 minutes AND ONLY 65-70 minutes of patience and then she is DONE. Spirit or no spirit, she does not care what the bishop has to say and will truly bring that chapel to the ground if she is not set free soon. The closing song then has 4 FREAKING versus and the organist knows one speed: slow. By the end of the 4 verse, 2 page “I believe in Christ” I want to throw the hymn book at the conductor, run screaming from the building, ninja kicking the door on my way out.

The closing prayer is punctuated with wailing toddlers and sighing children.  The lovely, elderly sister saying the prayer makes sure she blesses EVERYBODY.
I am then off to teach primary. First problem with is: I hate children. 2nd: I have anxiety and even getting to church should qualify me for a medal. I am currently at war with the primary president that causes a mild amount of awkwardness when I flat out tell the 2nd counselor he should just be grateful I haven’t committed a crime and to tell Sister Fussy Pants to back off.

The lessons are boring. Church is boring. Those dear children will eventually appreciate that one day they will glean a drop of spiritual understanding from lessons, but for now they are just being tortured by a woman who probably knows less about the gospel than they do. I bribe them. We have an understanding.

3rd hour arrives and I hurry to the library to help there. An hour of boredom punctuated by the ward that is after us letting their children run free down the hallways in an irreverent and disruptive manner.

I rush home to hurry and get lunch prepared. Lunch is consumed at top speed because we are all hungry. Church meetings cause an abnormal need for nourishment apparently. We then rush to get in naps. Rush to visit family. Rush to get home and get bath time done. Rush to get everyone to sleep so I can have a few minutes of peace with my husband before the week starts all over again.

I lay down to sleep and think “Shouldn’t I feel good when I go to church? Shouldn’t the desire to march to the front, grab the speaker by the collar and unceremoniously plop him back into his chair NOT be a part of the feelings in sacrament meeting?” And heaven help us all if it’s fast and testimony meeting. But that is a whole other post for a different day.

I sigh and pray that when next week arrives I will not let my blood pressure get so high and I will do better to not want to take a cattle prod to everyone.

2 comments:

Annie Leavitt said...

I would tell you it gets better, but it doesn't. I just have gotten used to Sundays being a lot of work. Period. THey are not a day of rest for mothers. But I know it's all worth it (it really better bE!)

ShEiLa said...

My husband says, Day of rest, my rear.
Amen Sister!

I love you rants and remember the splitting headaches every Sunday when my kids were little.

Ashley... I love you!

ToOdLeS.

ps. Tony has had a very tough week of health issues. Thank you for your talent for writing and making him laugh. My entire family loves an Ashley Rant!