If Ash Wednesday is supposed to be a solemn day, why was I giggling in the back pew?
Well, it beats the pants off of crying.
It’s been a busy day, and we all got home for naps pretty late. I didn’t get Eleanor up from her nap until it was 5 minutes past “we’re late!” So, it was like the fall of Saigon getting out of the house, with flying milk cups in one hand and sleepy babies in the other. Needless to say, I arrived at the church with Little-Miss-“no-No-NO!” fussing about everything. I tried to bribe her into a better mood with little bear shaped gram crackers, but she was all “milk please,” and then when you hand it to her “No don’t want dat!”
It. Drives. Me. BONKERS. Why does she ask for something just to burst into tears when I give it to her??? It’s beyond irrational to me. But I digress.
So, she rejects the milk yet again and I set the sippy behind me. It’s not until my butt is plenty good, chilled and moist do I discover that it’s a drippy sippy. Oh, joy. I’m making my own arse cheese. Meanwhile, one baby seat over. Tony is holding Saralyn. Who DID take the bottle of milk presented. Alas, the pitfalls of bottle feeding a breast bab: Chunder. Which Saralyn puked up all over Tony: neck, shirt and pants. Saralyn didn’t get the memo: anoint with ASHES, not splashes.
There we were. The Stinko Family in the last pew. NOT crying over spilled milks.
Saralyn, like her sister before her, was puzzled by the ceremony. She gazed at my eyes, but kept glancing at the ash cross on my forehead with a look that said, “hey, there’s shmootz on your head.” Blink blink.
“Don’t you know there’s shmootz?” Blink.
“Hey, Mommy?” Blink blink. “Usually, you lick a tissue and scrub when my face looks like that.”
Yes, dear, I know. You’ll understand later. Just keep anointing your father, OK?