I hate Sundays.  That’s why I’m glad it’s Monday today.

Sundays usually hum along just fine until about 10 o’clock, when it’s time to get ready for church.  That’s when Princess Zurg starts complaining that we’re violating her first amendment rights.  Her first-grade teacher must have mentioned a little something on Wednesday about the Veteran’s Day holiday because yesterday she kept yelling, “This is a land of freedom!” whenever one of us would ask her to put on her clothes or submit to a hair-brushing.  We go through this every Sunday because my daughter has made it clear that she’s not a Christian and she wants no part of our crazy rituals.  She doesn’t buy into this bit about living a virtuous life and going to live with God after she dies.  Because she’s not going to die.  She’s going to turn into a fairy, and fairies live forever, so anything they’re going to teach her in church that day will just be totally irrelevant.  Why do I insist on wasting her time?

“This is a land of freedom!”

By the time we’re getting in the car, her spirit of protest has been mostly broken, so that she’s only whimpering about the sad state of religious oppression in this country.  So that’s the most stressful thing about Sundays, the fact that I am usually in a poor mood by the time I actually get to church.

Princess Zurg usually takes her sweet time about finding her way into the chapel.  She doesn’t like the sound of the organ, among other things.  My fellow congregants have finally stopped informing me that my daughter is running around outside and is not in the chapel with me.  Yes, I know that, thank you.  I have three children and only two arms, and I’ve had a rough morning.  Cut me some slack.

Eventually PZ joins us in the chapel and is usually well-behaved (relatively speaking) for the rest of the meeting.  You might be wondering by now where Sugar Daddy is.  He’s the guy playing the organ.  I know, I’m so lucky to have such a talented husband.  Between the two of us our house must be filled with music all day long.  Oh my, yes, it is.  It certainly is.

Don’t misunderstand me.  I’m glad SD knows how to play the organ and is able to volunteer his services for our ward.  He enjoys it, and I’m not trying to say it creates some undue hardship on me, having to wrestle all three of the children by myself.  I’ve given up on wrestling all three at once.  That’s why PZ spends the first 15 minutes of the service running around the building proclaiming her right to live as a pagan.  There are worse things.  Trust me.  Some Sundays it is not so bad, just me and the boys and eventually PZ sitting in the pew together.  Other Sundays it’s a pretty crappy deal.

Yesterday was not so bad.  My quality of church life has improved tremendously since my inner hippie took over and said it is no crime to violate social norms and nurse your 19-month-old in the chapel when there’s a perfectly good mother’s lounge not 100 feet away.  Things were going rather swimmingly, if I do say so myself, with Sugar Daddy up at the organ, Mister Bubby drawing pictures of his girlfriends and their weapons, Princess Zurg sulking quietly beside me, Elvis nursing semi-discreetly under the blanket he occasionally allowed to cover him.  Then the deacon came by with the tray of consecrated bread, and Elvis, sensing real food in the vicinity, started flailing his limbs, kicking MB in the head, causing MB to start wailing, which caused Elvis to suddenly and without warning yank himself off of my breast, which caused me to do some very interesting things to avoid giving this 12-year-old boy an eyeful, which is about all I can offer after 19 months of nursing my third child and still more than said 12-year-old probably ever wanted to see of me as long as he lived.  I think I was successful.  I don’t know.  I don’t look anyone in the eye much these days.  Anyway, Princess Zurg sulked peacefully throughout all of this, and we all lived through the rest of the meeting without incident.  By “without incident” I mean, of course, that I did at no point sling two of my offspring over my shoulder and drag the third one out to the foyer, where she would probably have bolted out the front door and spread her message of religious liberty to the entire neighborhood.

I felt pretty good about our worship session until I returned to the chapel after depositing MB in his Sunday School class and Elvis in the nursery and found that our pew looked like it had recently endured a visit from Hurricane Juanita or Hurricane Kevin, or whatever it’s called.  I know that’s a cliche, kids, but I wasn’t trying to make a joke.  Next time you see those communities ravaged by severe weather on the news, you can think to yourself, “So that’s what the Madhousehold’s pew looks like after 70 minutes of communing with God.”  It’s exactly the same, only not quite as wet.

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So Reese’s has officially ruined my life.  No, not by making those disgusting white chocolate peanut butter cups.  What’s up with that crap?  Perfectly good candy bars coming out in a white chocolate version everywhere.  I’m convinced that M&M/Mars thinks it can fool large segments of the population into thinking that chocolate that tastes like hell must be better for you.  (Yes, white chocolate has the potential to taste just fine, but only if it’s the premium stuff, not the pale wax that gets wrapped around cheap peanut butter and sits at the Safeway checkout for two and a half years.)  No, I try to ignore that white chocolate nonsense, but I can’t ignore the new inside-out Reese’s peanut butter cups that have chocolate on the inside and cheap peanut butter on the outside.  Why do they taste so much better than right-side-out peanut butter cups, which are aggravatingly delicious as it is?  I don’t know.  Why do pretzels taste so much better when they’re shaped like goldfish?  It’s one of life’s mysteries.

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