Once upon a time there was a mother who lived in a little house with her husband and her children. They had plenty to eat and lived a nice, modest little life. Then one day, an event occurred. It was something that came around every year and mothers all over the land would shudder in fear of it. It was called “Spring Break” because of, certainly, all the spirits of mothers that were broken during that fateful week.
We are getting ready to put our house on the market so we can purchase our “forever home” so I’ve been doing a lot of online searches for houses. I really love the old brick farmhouses. I watch Rehab Addict on HGTV like it’s porn. I fantasize about my family living in a great big old house in the country and I have a garden and my goat, Goaty O. So I have been spending a lot of time on Realtor.com looking for this fantasy house. 4 bedrooms, 2+ baths on at least an acre. Oh, and, of course, no ghosts.
Here’s the conundrum: I LOVE old houses and antiques but I hate thinking about the people who used to own them. I know that if I even think about those people, their spirits will immediately arrive at my house to tell me their problems, the greatest of which is being dead. My feelings on ghosts are pretty close to my feelings on kids– if they’re not mine, keep them the fuck away from me.
It was that time of year again, Friends. The celebration of Jesus’s resurrection! The day that Jesus rose from the dead and went house to house to hide eggs throughout the homes of all that supported him in the year 30 Savior Elections. While only 11 people voted, he still won because, well.. you know, zombies…
Honestly, guys, I didn’t think of Jesus all day and I feel like a total dick. For reals.
How did I get through an entire Christian holiday without thinking of Christ even ONCE? Even when I’m bowling I think of Baby Jesus (I promise, Baby Jesus, if you let me pickup the spare, I’ll go to church on Sunday). I mean, I think of Jesus even when I’m drunk out of my mind! But yesterday, on probably the most important Jesus holiday, I didn’t think of him even once.
I can’t believe that I am a person who is that detached from her religion. I didn’t bring up the reason for the day at all with my kids. Bad Catholic. Bad.
It started off with not going to church, which is normal; however, I didn’t experience that typical Catholic guilt for not going. It’s pretty much tradition to NOT go but with not going comes a comforting guilt that reminds me that I’m a sinner and any love I get from God is certainly undeserved. I had no guilt. Fatigue, yes, since my kids were up at 7am because some lunatic rabbit had hidden chicken eggs all over my house. Not sure what that bunny’s beef is with chickens but I make it a point to stay on any rabbit’s good side. You’d think after the first few years, the chicken would be like, “Ok, Mr. Bunny, you got me again! Very funny! Now help me find my damn kids…” But after having her babies hidden year after year for so long, that chicken’s gotta be like, “Oh, EFF you, Rabbit. The joke’s old already…I’m not bothering finding those kids… I’ll just go to bed and make more. Screw you! Dick!”
That’s a funny sentence. “Bunny’s beef with chicken. Hah!
Anyway, my kids went through the surprises in their Easter baskets (no Jesus in there). Then they found all of the eggs hidden around the house (no Jesus there either). Then we all got dressed and piled into the truck and… still not thinking of Jesus… we drove three hours to go to an Easter party to celebrate Jesus’s resurrection. We weren’t there to celebrate the nice weather (it was the most beautiful Easter day on record, I kid you not) or the piles of grilled meat we all enjoyed. We were there to celebrate Jesus but I am certain that if there was a simulacrum of a sad looking Jesus on one of the grilled chicken legs, no one saw it and his face was eaten off without a second though about it.
I mean, we prayed before the meal now that I think about it… I was there, I was holding hands with my kids as we prayed… but I didn’t really pray. I was thinking about whether I could eat quickly before whoever was holding the baby would want me to take him back. I wasn’t paying attention to the prayer.
There were 1,000 plastic eggs littering the yard for the kids to find. 1,000. That’s a lot of effort, filling and placing all of those eggs. I didn’t hear anyone mention why they went through all that trouble. It was for the kids, for their enjoyment, of course. It was wonderful and the kids had so much fun gathering up all those eggs. But I missed an opportunity to remind my kids about gratitude. To show my kids why it’s important to thank both people and God.
It was a lovely day with lovely people. I enjoyed myself immensely.
But I didn’t think of Jesus once and that makes me sad.
We even stopped by my hometown to see my dad and sister. We drove by the beautiful, double-steepled church where my husband and I were married. The place my daughter used to call “Baby Jesus’s castle.”
Why didn’t I think of Jesus then? Why didn’t I bring up my Lord and Savior to my kids and talk about the resurrection and the meaning of Easter? Maybe it was because I was swooning from the celebrating. I was itchy from confetti from the hundreds of cascarones that were smashed over our heads, glitter and tiny papers migrating down our clothes, into our underwear and permeating our skin so we will find flecks of Easter confetti for months or even years.
I’m going to digress here a bit to say something about these cascarones. It is a yearly Easter tradition where empty eggshells are collected throughout the year, colored and then filled with confetti, glitter and, sometimes, flour. Everyone hates the flour ones.
The first time I experienced this, it was sort of bizarre and magical. There is tiny flecks of paper floating in the wind and people chasing after each other, crushing eggs in hair and down shirts. Its awesome and awful at the same time. You dread it but it’s still fun.
The tradition has nothing to do with Jesus. Having them smashed over your head is supposed to bring you good luck but it’s not, like, religious luck. It’s more like, “Good luck on keeping those scalp lacerations from getting infected!” (It can sometimes get a little frenzied, the egg smashing, and usually my head skin/hair hurts for a few days.)
After all that, still no Jesus.
Even on the ride home, when the baby is screaming his fool head off and I keep saying, “Good Lord!” I still do not actually think of the Lord. Even when I’m sitting in the huge mess my kids left in the back seat of the truck because the baby, even though he isn’t hungry, won’t calm down so I have to be back there to soothe him with my pinky. It’s the only thing he will use as a pacifier, my upside-down finger. Or my breast, but since my boob won’t reach him while he’s buckled in the car seat, he gets the pinky. I have one hand stretched out, nursing the baby with a finger, the other hand is stroking my 7 year old’s hair, who is sleeping with his head in my lap. I’m content. Actually, even though my feet are buried in about a foot of kid-garbage, I’m really stinking happy back there. I have both my boys, sleeping and happy. We got to enjoy the day with my daughter who usually is spending the holiday with her birth father and she, too, is sleeping peacefully in the front seat. My husband was kind enough to drive the entire way, almost six hours, even though he was suffering with a nasty head cold. I felt in love with my life and my family. I felt needed and loved back.
But I never thought of Jesus. I never thanked him for all that I have and all he sacrificed for me.
So I am doing that today. Thank you, Jesus, for giving me a life I’m not worthy of. I should have tried harder to remind my kids of the blessings you provide in our lives. Seriously, you rock.
Sorry I missed you yesterday, Lord. I promise to do better next year. I’ll even write your name on an egg with white crayon.
Someday you will wake up and realize you are disgusting. You will open your eyes and the realization will hit you like a 40 ton diaper pail- you, bitch, are fucking gross.
Why? Because you used your shirt as a burp cloth some time in the wee hours of the morning. You were laying on your back, baby on your chest, and you were trying to burp your child after nursing. You knew it was going to happen, because it always does, but you were exhausted… so you burped him lying down. As always, he inevitably threw up on you. The puke rolled like a tide– down your boobs and up to your throat. Only then did you have the energy to bolt up in bed so you didn’t drown in your baby’s sick. You used your clothes to clean up the amazing amount of puke. You felt good that you obviously produce enough milk. Cling to this information. It’s all you have to keep you going.
Let me tell you about my favorite sound in the whole wide world. It goes like this, “MooooooooooOOOOOOOoooommmmmmm!” and it is hysterical.
It’s the sound my daughter makes whenever I am humiliating her beyond words. She can’t do anything to complain besides just kind of MOO my name at me. It’s freaking great.
Sometimes people are multifaceted. Sometimes they have multiple interests and can’t be pigeon holed into a single category that defines them. I like to pretend to be one of those people.
Thing is, “bitch” would pretty much sum me up. With that in mind, I’m going to step outside of “mommy mode” for a second and do something that has always brought me pleasure– judging people.
Today had such potential to be a good day. The sun is shining, it is above 50 degrees out there and I was ready to make a good day of it.
Gabe, however, had other plans…
It started out brilliantly. I woke up, had coffee and Gabe was being a real doll–not fussing, playing happily and just, in general, being a good baby. It felt like the perfect opportunity to go run some errands, and by running errands, I mean “go to Walmart,” as usual. Now, I’m not a ‘Mart fanatic. I’m a mother. I have limited time and resources. If I can make one trip, I better make it count. So, out of sanity-saving necessity, I go to the Mart. I hate the Mart, I do. But, shit, girllll, they got e’rthang!