Ah, Sundays–the day in which God rested.  The day in which we keep holy.

You know–the day that suddenly becomes one big fat occasion to sin.

Every Sunday, we wake up earlier than the Sunday before.  With each additional child, we tack on an additional 15 minutes of prep time to get out the door on time.

Every Sunday, we wake up earlier than the Sunday before, and it still manages to be utter chaos…

It’s breakfast time.  It looks as though someone decided to throw Cheerio grenades around the dining room.  Four seconds into breakfast, I’m already cleaning up spilled milk.  Whoever said, “There’s no use crying over spilled milk,” probably didn’t clean up spilled milk on an average of three times every single day.

While I finish cleaning up the havoc that has been wreaked in the dining room, my husband starts brushing the boys’ teeth and getting them ready for Mass.  I will later walk into the bathroom to find water dripping off of every surface.  Hurricane Sunday–that’s what I call it.  Where does all of this water come from?  How is it even possible to get this much water in our bathroom? I think back to the Cheerios and spilled milk only minutes before and then envision my husband hosing the boys off in the middle of the bathroom, and it all makes sense now.

I stop in my tracks.  My toothbrush is suspiciously sitting in a spot I didn’t last leave it, and I briefly consider whether I should throw it out and get a new one for fear that my two year-old decided to experiment with the toilet and my toothbrush.

As I run around trying to get my five month-old daughter ready (oh, yes–I’m still in pajamas with no make-up), my four year-old begins his Sunday sermon.  This week it’s on compassion.  He paces around the living room saying things like, “We must have compassion.  Compassion is a great thing.  My baby sister doesn’t have compassion because she’s too little to know what it is.  But WE…WE must have compassion.”  My two year-old, who can scream so loud it makes your ears bleed begins screaming, “STOP IT!  STOP TALKING ABOUT TUMPASSION!  IT HURTS MY EARS!”  My husband and I have a feeling he’s going to be the one to join a group of Carthusian monks–you know, the order that lives in complete silence.

As my husband struggles to get shoes on the boys, I make a mad dash to get dressed.  My make-up will be applied in the car, and let me tell you–there is no greater amount of trust than when a wife puts eyeliner on while her husband is driving.

I come back out into the living room to…NOT find the baby.

“Where’s the baby?”  I ask, looking around.

“I don’t know,” my husband says, holding our two year-old upside-down and struggling to get his shoes on.

I feel like a snake just got loose in the house.

“Well, when did she suddenly learn to crawl?!”  I ask, exasperated.  I find her behind the couch, sucking on her toes.

The two year-old escapes.  I catch him, wrestle him to the ground like a greased pig, and I struggle with getting his other dress shoe on.  My husband, meanwhile, is writing out the information on the offering envelope in one hand while putting shoes on the four year-old with the other hand.

We rush out the door with my husband muttering something about rabid squirrels and military school.

After everyone is locked and loaded in the upright position and all hands and feet are safely in the vehicle, my husband backs out of the driveway.  I pat him on the leg and say, “Only three minutes behind schedule this time, babe.  I have no idea how big families do it!  I think they just don’t go to bed on Saturday nights, don’t you?”

He mutters under his breath something about sleep being overrated.

As we back out of the driveway, our two year-old shouts, “I DON’T HAVE A DIAPER ON!”

This prompts my four year-old to yell out, “I think I have two different dress shoes on!  Is that okay?  Do you think the priest will notice that I have two different shoes on?  Do priests wear shoes?  Do you think OUR priest wears shoes?  What color do you think his socks are?  My tummy hurts.  I have to go to the bathroom.  Can we go back to the house so I can go potty?  Do PRIESTS go potty?!”

I sigh and look out the window, knowing that next Sunday will be just as hectic as this Sunday no matter what I try to tweak and change in the efforts to make it easier.

All in all, though, we’re extremely blessed–no matter how chaotic our mornings are.

Delena can be found writing at It’s On My To-Do List.

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