Slow-Cooked Sentences

Oh, shit

Rachael Conlin Levy
Photo courtesy of pauljoyce.

Monday.

How did I get here? Already.

Yesterday was a marathon of celebration, starting at 8:30 in the morning when we went tearing out of the driveway one hour before church began.

One.

Whole.

Hour.

Because if you don’t leave an hour early, you won’t get a seat. Arrive thirty minutes early and you might be able to squeeze into a pew in the balcony. Arrive fifteen minutes early and you’ll be joining the line of people on the walls. Arrive ten minutes early and the doors will be shut and ushers will be telling you to wait for the next service.

Church. For one hour and ten minutes we prayed and sang and sat and sweated and kneeled with hundreds of people, and the baby fell asleep and I escorted kids to the bathroom twice, and then finally it was over. We raced home and grabbed the blueberry muffins (for the first family gathering) and the salad and wine (for the second family gathering), hopped back in the car and went tearing out of the driveway (again). From the backseat of the car came snaps and yanks and tugs and grunts as children fought their way out of tie and shirt and tights and shoes.

Family (divided between two houses and ten miles). For seven hours we ate and laughed and talked and hid eggs and found eggs and drank and ate some more and commiserated over this person’s pay cut and rejoiced because that person’s job was doing well. Then everything was washed — sticky hands and chocolately faces and dirty dishes (though the big black pan that held the ham was left to soak). And adults joined kids in a game of four square in the driveway until it was time to go.

Home. Where there were dirty dishes and wet laundry and Easter grass all over the floor, and one kid took a bath, and a Scotch was poured, and the baby dragged a blanket to his mama’s feet, and caught her raiding the Easter baskets. And it wasn’t until after the dishes were washed, the drier running, the floor swept, the baby sleeping and the peanut butter cups eaten, that I realized tomorrow was Monday, and the kids were on spring vacation, and I had to write something, something for this blog. But my synapses weren’t firing because my brain was sloshing around in sugar, and I thought:

Oh, shit.

And then I thought:

A title.

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2 responses to “Oh, shit”

  1. chelsey says:

    I’m exhausted just reading this.

  2. mamapease says:

    There was room-a-plenty at old St. Paul’s! Hope you’re having a good day!

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