What did those kids do to that nice lady?

Thursday, December 22, 2011

How to feel Good again

I’m going through one of those spells right now where every minute of the day feels a bit like torture.  Okay...maybe not every minute...but the point is...everyone is kind of an asshole right now.  And by everyone I mean The Offspring.  We all know young children are challenging, but sometimes they just seem Worse and More Annoying than Usual.  Some will say it’s a “growth spurt.”  Others will say it’s “just a phase.”  I prefer to call it an Unfortunate Length Of Time Where I Have To Be A Bitch All Day Because No One Listens Or Does Anything I Ask And I’m Tired Of Picking Up All This Crap. 
What really sucks about these periods of asshole-ness is that I feel like such a terrible failure as a mother.  I don’t want to be mad and angry all day; it’s exhausting and pointless.  Then I start to feel bad about myself and wonder if I’m a good mom and why can’t I have more patience and where did I go wrong and will they ever listen to me and what if they start to hang out with the wrong crowd will it be because of that time I screamed at them and slammed the door?  This spiral of self deprecation in itself is exhausting and can put me in an even worse mood.  But fear not; this mood can be almost instantly altered by none other than good, old fashioned, Reality Television.  A glass of wine and a dose of stupidity will make me feel like a Better Person and a Better Mom in no time.    
Here, a few shows I like to watch to remind myself that I am actually doing okay:
Toddlers and Tiaras: You are in for a treat if you have never seen this show as these parents are horrifying.  Pros: you only need to watch it for approximately 17 seconds before saying to yourself, holy shit...I really AM a good mother.  Cons: the standard is low as these mothers are, you know, spray tanning their 3 year olds and putting them in Spanx because it’s FUN YA’LL! 
Real Housewives of Anywhere: Um, yes.  A bunch of rich drag queens with terrible taste bitching about...um...what are they bitching about again?  Oh yeah...nothing.  At least when I bitch about my children it’s because I’m ACTUALLY RAISING THEM.  
I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant: Yes.  This is a real show.  I usually watch it when I want to feel skinny and smart.
Extreme Couponing:  Clearly, these people are insane.  Are you really saving money when you buy yet another year’s supply of laundry detergent when you have 11 years in storage?  And I’m sorry, but you WANT your kids to have an unlimited supply of candy bars and chocolate milk simply because they were... free?  You’ll be paying for fat camp (and therapy) later.  I’ll go ahead and pay for apples now instead.
Wife Swap:  When they say it could be worse...yes...yes it could.  Just watch this show.
Actually, Husband should watch this so he knows how awesome I am and he should just go ahead and rub my feet every night to thank me for being so awesome.  
Supernanny:  Oh.My.Lord.  My kids are...good.  Like, really good.  Like I should wake them up and apologize for thinking they were not so good today.  These kids...these kids are bad.  Bad Kids.  Bad, bad, bad kids.
Hoarders:  So...I haven’t cleaned the bathrooms in two weeks...so what?  These people haven’t cleaned their bathrooms in 36 years.  Winning.
Sadly, I could go on but I won’t because I’m sure your opinion of me is lowering by the second.  Remember-you only need to watch no more than five minutes of any of these shows to remind yourself that you are doing a fabulous job of being human.  
Tomorrow I will have more patience; tomorrow I will take more deep breaths before reacting to marker on the walls because tonight I will take pleasure in the stupidity of others and thank my stars for my Offspring who, even when they are being assholes, still remain my favorite people.

Thursday, December 8, 2011

Santa Baby

The other day I was outside playing with the kids when my son, out of nowhere, asked me if we celebrate Hanukkah.  I paused and said, no...we celebrate Christmas.  He then asked, Are we Christians?  Now, my brain was saying Who the fuck are you talking too?  But my mouth came out with, yes...yes...I suppose we are Christians.  He then asked What are Christians?
Now, as I’ve mentioned before, we do not attend church regularly.  (Or at all.)  This is mostly out of laziness and a desire to enjoy Sunday morning.  And while I want to give my kids a foundation on which to form their own beliefs...I kind of want to just take a walk to get breakfast on the weekends.  But, Son was persisting in this line of questioning so I attempted to answer his question.  THINK, WOMAN, THINK!  What did all those years of CCD teach you?  (I can’t remember because I was...bored.)
It went something like this...pretty sure I nailed it:
Christmas is Jesus Christ's birthday.  
Who’s Jesus?
He was a great man who wanted to teach people to live with respect and love for others.  He wanted people to be good.
Like Santa?
Well...yes...I guess?  Except Jesus was the Son of God.  Remember how I told you God lived inside and all around us and wants us to be nice and kind?  Well, Jesus was His son.
WHAT?  How could he be inside of us and have a son?
How old is Jesus going to be on Christmas?
Well...he’s dead.
He’s DEAD?
Yes...that’s why we celebrate Christmas.  To remember Jesus on his birthday.
He must have been really old, huh?
Something like that.
So...Santa wants us to be good so he can bring us presents for Jesus’ birthday?
These kids...they ask so many questions.  Questions I am not always prepared to answer and I’m scared for all the questions to come.  (Thank God for Google.)  My five year old son made me feel like a total stumbling idiot and now he’s convinced that Santa and Jesus are pretty much the same person.  I DID THAT TO HIM.  
So....maybe I screwed up the Jesus/Santa/Christmas thing, but I forte in other areas. My kids have excellent taste in music and like to bust a move.  They both have a fantastic sense of humor, especially my Daughter who is the funniest person I know.  My Son could most likely get terrorists to confess to any crimes committed by his relentless thirst for interrogation.   And they are both good and kind people.  
After all, God/Jesus/Santa is watching...you do want that scooter, right?

Tuesday, December 6, 2011

Goodbye My Love

It’s hard for me to say this.  It’s painful, actually.  But yesterday, as Daughter came out of her room for the third time, sucking on a lollipop and shrugging off the enormous disaster she created INSTEAD of sleeping, I realized that precious, wonderful, amazing nap-time may be Coming.To.An.End.  
In honor of nap-time and all that it has given to me, I have written a song.  It is to the tune of Candle in the Wind.  I’m pretty sure my lyrics rival those of the great Elton John.  (It’s more fun to turn on the song and sing along with the new words.  Trust.)  

May I present: Goodbye Nap-time by Gelato Mama
Goodbye, nap-time.  You know, I really enjoyed you so much.  
You had the grace to keep me sane
To make it through the day.
You really were fantastic 
Sometimes better than sex
I think if you were a man
I’d make out with you every day
And it seems to me, I lived my life from 1-4 pm
Always knowing I could pee in peace 
Cuz no one would barge in
And I would really like to keep you
Around for my whole life
But your candle burned out yesterday
And now I’m kind of fucked
Goodbye, nap-time.  I think I loved you more than you’ll ever know
Now my kids think they don’t need to sleep
And turn into assholes.
Now that you are gone,
I wish I could talk to you
And let you know how I loved you
You never made me blue
And it seems to me, I lived my life from 1-4 pm
Always knowing I could pee in peace 
Cuz no one would barge in
And I would really like to keep you
Around for my whole life
But your candle burned out yesterday
And now I’m kind of fucked
Goodbye nap-time.  But seriously, where did you go?
After everything we’ve been through
I thought you loved me back
Goodbye nap-time. How could you do this to me?
Now I have to play Yahtzee endlessly
And stab out my eyeballs
And it seems to me, I lived my life from 1-4 pm
Always knowing I could pee in peace 
Cuz no one would barge in
And I would really like to keep you
Around for my whole life
But your candle burned out yesterday
And now I’m kind of fucked
But your candle burned out yesterday
And now I’m kind of fucked

Tuesday, November 29, 2011

Oh, goody

Can I tell you what I was doing at 7:14 am this morning?  Chasing Daughter, barefoot and in my pajamas, after she fled outside to go to the car to get HER BAG!  HER GOODY BAG!  WHERE IS MY BAG?   I’m pretty sure my neighbors thought maybe there was a fire in our house and we were fleeing from danger.  We arrived to the car and there it was, in it’s shredded glory.  Oh, how torn up plastic can bring a wee one such pleasure.
Can we talk about goody bags for a second?  I hate them.  I despise them.  They must be a disguise for the devil because they only bring BAD BAD THINGS.  Now, I get it.  It’s not for me.  It’s for the kids and kids love that stupid little shit.  An eraser shaped like a candy cane?  MUST HAVE IT.  A tiny bottle of bubbles that will only spill the INSTANT it is open?  CAN’T LIVE WITHOUT IT.   Oh yes, everyone CAN use more stickers in their life.  (And on their coffee table.)  My personal favorite?  Pencils.  A pencil is AMAZING.  Where’s my special pencil?  Where’s my Batman pencil?  Where’s my Hello Kitty pencil?  (Although, a pencil is a useful tool to stab my eyes out when I can't...take...it...anymore...)  Honestly, I’d rather have candy because at least when they eat it...it is gone...forever.  I will no longer have to move furniture around to search for that tiny compact of lip gloss because, yes, I would rather move my sofa than listen to the WHINING.
My daughter is not only obsessed with the dreaded contents of the goody bag, but the actual bag itself.  The girl loves a bag.  (I can’t fault her that.)  Never mind that it’s a cheap plastic bag that I’ve had to tie back together after the handle broke and it’s pretty much disintegrated, She Must.Have.It.  If I cannot produce it in 2.4 seconds, I will suffer the consequence of the Whine That Lasts Forever and the Snot That Flows Freely.  Now, why don’t I just throw that crap away when we get home?  I’m scared of my own children, okay?  Who knows what they would do to me if they saw the discarded crap buried in the garbage.  
My son is turning five on Saturday and I am sure his buddies will show up fully expecting a goody bag.  They will not get one.  They can instead decorate an ornament with all the wonderful things I just spent $45 on at Michael’s.  If they are too lazy to decorate an ornament, they go home empty handed.  (And, it just occurred to me...if they don’t celebrate Christmas, then I am going to look like a real asshole.) $45 seems like a lot, you say, for goody bags?  Yes.  Yes it does.  But think of the joy I am going to bring to all those parents who will leave without a Bag of Crap.  In this season of giving, I think that’s the best gift yet.

Saturday, November 26, 2011


Some days I can’t believe that I have lived in Los Angeles for ten years.  What inspired my move here in the first place has always been a mystery as I was living oh so happily in my favorite place in the world, New York.  I always thought I would be there...forever.  But one winter afternoon, I decided I was going to move to LA.  My family was confused.  My friends were confused.  I was confused.  But I did it anyway. 
Ten years ago I was a young girl in a new city and didn’t know a soul. I lived in a tiny studio apartment in Hollywood and worked at an awful restaurant who’s greatest gift to me was a friendship that is still strong today.   Ten years ago I’m sure I spent Thanksgiving with a group of people brought together by chance of being orphaned for the holiday.  
Ten years sounds like a long time and I suppose it can feel like a long time.  Yet, I only have to close my eyes and I can see that young girl, that Gelato Girl, with a paper map in her hand, figuring out where she took that wrong turn and how she was going to get home.  I see that Gelato Girl in so many corners I turn; so many coffee shops of past.  I see her writing in a notebook and counting the dollars in her wallet.  I see her laughing with long gone friends and wondering how life would play out for her.  I see her happy, I see her sad...I still feel her Gelato spirit in me.
Ten years later that Girl has grown into Mama.  There aren’t too many days that pass where I don’t wonder to myself...how did this life happen?  Where did these amazing children come from?  How is it possible that they are mine?  How to express gratefulness for this family?  I cannot find the words.
Two days ago, I sat down to Thanksgiving dinner at a beautiful table, lit by candles and twinkling lights.  My children ran around the yard with their best friends.  Seventeen friends, who prefer to think of each other as family, sat down to enjoy food, drink and company.  I was quiet for a moment and smiled as I thought of that Gelato Girl. Did she imagine this life?  Could she have dreamed this family? I can't help but wonder what the next ten years hold for me  ...I can only hope they will be as blessed as the last ten.
But, I’m pretty sure it will be world domination.

Happy Thanksgiving.  I'm so thankful for all the eyes that read this page...

Friday, November 18, 2011

Dr. Gelato

The other day I got a phone call from Husband in the middle of the afternoon.  He rarely calls during work hours (can you blame him?) so I answered.  Good news did not await me.
I hurt my knee, He said.  My good one.  (No, he’s not 78.)  Ohhh...I said.  Are you...okay?  I don’t know, He said.  It hurts pretty bad.  I said, I’m so sorry. Hopefully it’s just a little twist or something and will feel better in a few hours?  He said, I hope so.  I really hope I don’t have to have knee surgery.  I said, why do you jump to knee surgery?  Can we start with a sprain?  He said, you know I have fucked up knees.  (He curses, too.  I’m not the only dirty mouth in the house.)  I said, I know.  I’m sorry.  Your knee can get fucked up when you fall off a wall drunk in college.  He said, it was a baseball injury when I was 12!  I said, yeah, the first time.  So...what time do you think you’ll be home?
I have to say...I think I handled that conversation pretty well.  Yeah, I kind of sound like an asshole...but, if you could hear my internal dialogue, you would understand how kind and patient I was being.  Let’s be truthful here, ladies; having a sick husband is no picnic.  I mean, what’s worse? Sick kids or sick Husband?  I know exactly what you are thinking when your Husband may come home with a “cough” or a “fever” or an “upset stomach.”  It goes something like this:
Oh, you don’t feel good?  Great.  Fucking super. That’s too bad.  That’s really too bad.  For me.  Can’t wait for you to lie around on the sofa asking me for shit.  Like I need another kid to take care of right now.  You haven’t even thrown up.  You don’t really get to be sick unless you’re barfing.  Last time I got sick, I did barf.  A lot.  Was anyone home to help me?  No.  Did I get to take a nap?  No.  Oh, you did get home early...that’s right.  So at 5 p.m. I finally got to lay the fuck down and barf in peace.  Nobody watches you when you barf.  Two Short People don’t stand over you and laugh because Mommy’s making funny sounds.  Nope.  You come home and close the bedroom door and nobody even bothers you.  Must.Be.Nice.  
Now, because I love Husband and want Him to buy me drinks tonight, I have to say...I do feel His concern when I am sick.  He does try to be flexible and make it home early to help me with the kids.  But I have a dream.  I have a dream one day that if I am sick, I will get to stay in bed all day and watch episode after episode of the Real Housewives.  Now, I’m not asking to be sick...I’m just saying...if I do get sick...I want to lay in my bed.  By myself.  Luckily for Husband, I have superior genes and do not get sick often.  And if I am sick, I will probably deny it because everyone knows if you ignore it, it will just go away.  
Which brings me to my medical advice for Husband: Honey, I’m sorry you hurt your knee again.  It does look uncomfortable to not be able to bend it.  I’m pretty sure if you stop looking and touching your knee, it will magically heal itself.  But if you do need knee surgery, I will nurse you back to health, just like a Good Wife.  It won’t be fun; it won’t be pretty...but then again...neither are your fucked up knees.  

Tuesday, November 15, 2011

Cocktail, anyone?

There can be several points throughout the day of taking care of Small Children that I think I might lose it.  It can be a small moment where a deep breath does the trick; it can be a large moment where hiding in the closet works better, but we all have days when there is a Moment that you wistfully remember Those Days when, you know, you just like went to the movies and stuff and didn’t say words like Pick Up and Play-Date and a short person wasn’t losing their shit over an absurdly tiny piece of insignificant crap and the thought of pulling your hair out didn’t cross your mind 27 times a day.  Most of these special moments for me occur between the hours of 5 and 7 p.m.  The two hours of the day that can feel like 8; the two hours of Let’s Fight About Everything!; the two hours of WHERE THE HELL IS YOUR FATHER?  Some folks refer to this time as the witching hour, but I, being a glass is half full kind of person, refer to it as Cocktail Hour. 
I was in the middle of Cocktail Hour the other night, enjoying the many special benefits that come along with it, when I had a startling revelation: the Don Drapers of the world did not create Cocktail Hour.  No...no they didn’t.  Mothers did.  Years ago, when Husbands across this land would come home from a long day of Not Taking Care of Wee Ones, Good Wife was there to greet him with a nice Scotch or Bourbon, but it’s only because her other hand had a firm grip on her own strong beverage and she didn’t want to share.  At the risk of sounding like I may need my own Intervention one day, there really isn’t an evening that passes which does not involve my drinking a glass of wine. Or two.  (Because you know, when you start at 5:30, one glass doesn’t always cut it.)  Does it make me feel better?  Yes.  Is it delicious?  Yes.  Will I pour a glass for Husband when he strolls through the door?  Yes.  Unless I am mad at him for not being home while the World Was Ending and then he can pour his own damn glass.  
You can now go ahead and add Inventing Cocktail Hour to your list of Why Women Are Awesome.  Raise a glass for us...and then pass it over.  (But first, put the kids to bed.  I might do something really awesome then.)

Friday, November 11, 2011

I guess I could just be a prude...but...

God did not bless me with “good metabolism.”  He did not bless me with a “small appetite.”  He gave me a dirty mind and a potty mouth and called it a day.  So, although I am thankful for both of those things, (while my mother shakes her head and wonders where she went wrong) it also means that I have to get my butt to the gym in order to maintain my MILF status.  Now, I don’t mind working out, although I do mind it when someone is on my treadmill and they ARE BARELY MOVING while reading a magazine.   
I digress.  Although my irrational love of a particular treadmill may be a fascinating topic, what I need to address is Locker Room Nudity.  For those of you who are blessed with good metabolism and “never work out” but manage to stay slim and trim, you should know that first-I hate you, and second-there are two very different levels of nudity happening in a locker room: Naked and NEKKID.  It is rather obvious who is playing for which team once inside the locker room, but in case you need some visuals (why not?), I’ve composed a list of observations of both Naked and NEKKID people:
-Maintain normal levels of nudity 
-Get dressed in a reasonable amount of time
-Use a towel as God intended; to cover up
-Apply lotion like a normal person
-Shower with the curtain closed
-May feel uncomfortable talking to someone without being at least partially dressed
-Level of nudity that is acceptable to normal naked people while doing makeup and hair:  bra and pants
-Like to think of the locker room as their own personal bedroom (You know they keep the shades up)
-Will partake in conversation with you while being butt ass NEKKID, leaving you confused and worried about where the hell you are supposed to look
-Blow dry their hair wearing only a thong, or maybe nothing at all
-Can seriously put lotion on body parts I didn’t know existed 
-A towel is merely a suggestion; why not air dry?
-Shower curtain-also a suggestion.  Of course we all want to watch you shower.  Why wouldn’t we?
Now, gentlemen, I’m sure you are thinking that NEKKID people sound totally awesome.   But please, let me gift you with another visual: Not all NEKKID people got it going on.  Ohhhh....LORD....no they don’t.  It’s only natural to assume that if someone has the chutzpah to strut completely naked in a room filled with other people for minutes at a time, that someone would be shaking a nice ass.  Sadly, this is not always true.  I do admire the confidence, I really do.  (Although, I admit, it’s nice to see that almost everyone has cellulite.)  And while I celebrate woman of all shapes and size, I don’t need to be so...familiar with your shape and size and all the...parts that come along with it.  I understand we need to get naked in the locker room; I know I’ll flash a boob here and a butt there...but...you know, we don’t need to get excessive.

So, in closing, a simple request from a simple naked person: Bring it down a notch, NEKKID people.  Bring it down.

Wednesday, November 9, 2011

Just Click It

Sometimes, I curse.  It’s true.  You might have noticed.  And you may not believe this, but I do attempt to not curse in front of my kids and in most cases I succeed, if only by cursing quietly.  But there is one situation, one act of parenthood that I cannot be held responsible for the words that come out of my mouth: the latching of the car seats in the car.   Although it is best to not have small children in the vicinity while I am performing this task, it is not always possible to keep them away because they like to “help” me.  (They are so “helpful.”)  Their young ears will be exposed to both verbal and sign language that is inappropriate and my only defense of this is, hey, at least when start to curse, they’ll do it right.  My recent session of latching car seats in Grandparents car inspired the following:  
A play in four acts 
Written by Me, starring Me, and directed by Me.
Me is inside the backseat of her car, attempting to put in first car seat.  It’s hot; Me is sweating and feeling agitated. Her children play nearby.
Me: Go in. Go in.  It should just latch.  It’s...right....there.   Latch.  Latch.  It’s right THERE.   Why the hell won’t this latch?  I can feel the bar.  It’s THERE.  IT’S RIGHT THERE.  My finger is on the damn bar.  You need to click.  Click, damn it.    Go.  In.  GO IN.  LATCH.  GODDAMNIT.  MOTHERF*#$@ER.  I HATE YOU.  I HATE THIS SEAT.  I HATE YOU SO MUCH.
Me sits back, takes a moment.  She takes a deep breath as her children stare at her and ask her if she needs Daddy.
ME: I’m FINE.  I don’t need Daddy.  Daddy’s not HERE, IS HE?  Me pauses; takes a breath.   Okay...there is the bar.  I feel it.  I see it.  Stop staring at me, stupid bar.  Why won’t it just go in?  It’s RIGHT FREAKING THERE.   WHY IS IT SO DAMN HOT BACK HERE?  Come on.  Please latch.  Pretty please?  Please please please please please.....
CLICK.  Success. Each time Me hears the click, she feels instant relief followed by anger at Click.  Why does Click need to mock her like that?  Like it was so easy to just...click it.  It’s not easy, Click.  IT DOESN’T ALWAYS JUST CLICK IN, CLICK.    I hate you, Click.   
Me sits back, exhausted.  Her kids cheer and shout encouragement.  This makes Me feel bad for being so angry and violent with the car seat and saying m’fer in front of her kids. Me reminds herself silently to stay calm. One click down, three to go.
See above.  
Again, see above.
Yes.  See above.  
If you have any interest in producing this fine piece of work, please contact me directly.

Thursday, November 3, 2011

Flying High

This morning, I received a text from Husband letting me know that he was sitting on the plane waiting to take off to join His Family at Grandma’s house.  He then said, Shall I have a bloody?  And I’m all...bloody nose when you get here?  Seriously, you are already sitting by yourself on an airplane, (that alone sounds awesome) most likely catching up on world events so you can sound smarter than me at dinner parties, and now I’m supposed to cheer you on as you order a cocktail?  Maybe just turn your phone off now.
Flying with young children can be...not so great.  I have flown dozens of times alone with my kids and each time I have to take a deep breath, pack enough snacks for China and back, ignore dirty look from flight attendant as I order a cocktail, and keep fingers crossed that everyone’s bodily functions stay in order.  (Because you may not know, many planes do not have a changing table.  This presents a challenging situation for any parent of a child who POOPS.)
Although my kids are usually good flyers, I have definitely been THAT mom with THAT kid on the plane.  My daughter, as an infant, one time screamed, um, the entire flight from Dallas to LAX.  It was fantastic.  I remember the two men sitting behind me kept giving me thumbs up, saying GREAT JOB, MOM!  WE’RE ALMOST THERE!  And although they were being friendly, I just wanted to flip them the bird and lock myself in the bathroom and cry.  My son is king of falling asleep riiiggghhhtttt as we land which makes deplaning exceptionally awesome.  They both often find that the best time for a wrestling match is as we are taxiing for takeoff and I endure more dirty looks from flight attendants as I say with gritted teeth I know they need to buckled up...I’M WORKING ON IT, LADY.  (And you’re grumpy ass isn’t helping matters, by the way.)
I will say that on the very very rare occasion I fly by myself, I am a much more relaxed passenger.  Our flight’s delayed?  No problem.  We’ll be sitting on the runway for 45 (90) minutes?  Okay...that sort of sucks, but oh well.  AT LEAST I AM NOT WITH CHILDREN RIGHT NOW.  I was not always like this.  Ask Husband.  Wait, don’t ask him.  We’d hate for him to have anything remotely negative to say about me because I’m perfect.
My formula for flying with young ones is pack light, (except for snacks) offer plenty of mindless entertainment, (hello ipad, I love you) juice, juice and more juice, and of course, don’t forget to bring that one treat your kids never get to eat except for on the plane.  We go with fruit snacks, otherwise known as AIRPLANE FOOD!   And while there will always be the people who race you to the escalator so they don’t have to wait behind you while you gently encourage your son to STEP ON.  STEP ON IT.  PLEASE.STEP.ON.IT.NOW, there are also the people who offer to carry a bag for you off of the plane.  Do everyone a favor and be THAT person.  And lastly, I appreciate the thumbs up, but I’d much rather have a cocktail, so feel free to buy me one.  
So, darling Husband, I hope you had a nice, relaxing flight because on the way home, Mama is plugging in her iphone and reading four trashy magazines while you fight over which Wild Kratts is on next.  Oh, and, go ahead and order me a bloody.  Thanks.

Tuesday, November 1, 2011

Chuck E. Jesus

Here in Gelato land, I have to admit that we do not go to church.  We keep meaning to go, but at like 6 p.m. on any given Sunday, we’re all...oh, crap.  We forgot to go to church.  We promise that we will at least TRY to remember to hit up church next week....flash forward to next week....oh crap.  We forgot to go to church. 
I believe in God and I do want my kids to have some sort of understanding that God is WATCHING YOU SO YOU BETTER NOT MESS UP, KID.   Oh wait, that’s Santa.  No, I am a believer in the Don’t Be A Douche God; my God just wants people to chill and be nice and not get so angry while driving vehicles.  But, explaining ‘Douche’ to a 2 and 4 year old is beyond my abilities without using even more inappropriate language, and I’m not sold that it’s mandatory to sit through an hour of mass every Sunday with squirmy toddlers in order to remain in good standing with The Big Guy.
 So, to go or not to go, that is the question.  A list of pros and cons.
A few reasons why it might time to go to church:
One) When my son asked me what that building was, I said, that’s a church.  And he said, what’s a church?
Two) When we pray, my daughter thanks God for Tic Tac’s.
Three) One time, my son asked what a certain word said. It said ‘Jesus.’  He said, “Oh, like Chuck E. Cheeses?  My mom won’t let us go there but I see it on TV.”  
Four) Every night, I say God Bless You to my kids.  The other night my son asks, What’s God?  I told him God lives inside us and all around us and wants us to be good and kind people.  He paused for a moment and then said that God is going to be pretty upset with Richard at his school because he is NOT.NICE.  (Dude, Richard, you’re four.  Don’t be a dick.)
Five) Husband’s mom went to the convent when she was a teenager.  I’m sure we are not making her proud.
Six) Son thinks heaven is where you “drink wine with all of your friends” because that’s what his friend told him.  (This heaven sounds fantastic...I’m going to go with this as well.)
Seven) Possible donut and/or pancake breakfast following mass.
A few reasons to put off church for a couple years:
One) My kids should think I’m God and can and will punish them as I see fit.
Two) Getting everyone dressed and out of the house by 830 on a Sunday morning seems like cruel and unusual punishment.
Three) I think it’s funny that my kid thinks Jesus and Chuck E. Cheeses are the same thing.
Four) It just sounds...annoying to go somewhere for an hour where you have to be quiet with two small children.  I KNOW the Good People in the world do this each week...but...Lord.  I’d just be praying for it be over.  Kind of like airplane rides with children.  I don’t think God wants to be compared to that, do you?
I guess we could find a compromise; we could be those Christmas and Easter Church People for a while...see how that goes.  Of course, we’d have to ignore the dirty looks we would get from the good Weekly Church People because we took their parking spot. I do like to sing Christmas carols, so that’s a bonus.  All good intentions aside, I think I’m probably going to go ahead and just keep trying not to be a douche for a few more years and hope that rubs off on my kids. And then, I promise, we are SO in.  I swear.  Just a couple more years...