Oh, to be ready for church... on time.

Without any hesitancy, I'll tell you that the hardest hours of my week are from 7 AM to 9:45 AM every sunday morning. Please allow me to vent.

How stinkin' early do I need to get up in order to get four children and myself ready for church and out the door on time? Because three hours of preparation obviously isn't long enough. I must also factor in the twenty minutes that it takes to convince Lucy that she actually does have to brush her hair and that she really shouldn't wear her read Christmas tights with her purple Easter dress.

I need to factor in thirty extra minutes for breakfast... because walking around the kitchen, in high heels, trying not to step on the feet of the one year old that is holding on to the back of your knees, really slows you down.

I guess I should also include the twenty minutes that it takes to bring everyone back inside from the car, to undo belts and buttons so that they can all have one more bathroom break. Because obviously, when I asked them if they needed to pee five minutes earlier before we went out to the car, they didn't have to go. Twenty minutes may seem like a long time, but there are a lot of steps involved with church clothes. A lot! Just to be safe, I should also include five minutes to change the baby's diaper. Because he never has to poop until his butt hits his car seat.

I should note that in general, my children move like molasses on Sunday mornings, and are constantly bombarding me with excuses as to why they should be exempt from our weekly Sunday outing. "I don't want to go to church" is the most frequent, but it's not very creative so it's not my favorite. I much prefer the more entertaining excuses, like "My tie smells like garbage", or "Someone stole all my dress socks."

Did I mention how hard it is to get myself ready? Yesterday morning, while I was putting on my makeup, Henry filled the toilet in my bathroom with everything that was in the trash can. It was lovely. I remember thinking, while it was happening, that I really need to stop him. But he was momentarily entertained, and I really needed to finish putting on my mascara. It really contributed to the post-church depression that is coming home and realizing the disaster that your house became before church.

I love the drive to church as well. I crank up the Sunday music to drown out the sound of the steam pouring from my ears and count backwards from 100 so that by the time I actually get to church, I'm calm. Almost. And then we walk in to the meeting. Almost always late. I hate that. There's so many of us... it's such a huge production to get us all in to a pew without drawing attention. I think next week I'm gonna have the kids army crawl under the pews up to where we normally sit so no one notices our coming in late. Then they could just pop up next to their dad, and I could stay in the hallway with the baby (that's where I spend most of the meeting anyway, since Henry, having learned to walk, is determined to never be still again). No one would ever know!

Did you notice that in my army crawling solution, Daddy is already sitting in the pew? Yeah. That's because he's been going to early meetings for various leadership responsibilities for as long as our marriage has existed. It is a rare treat when he gets to stay home and help get the kids ready. So Sunday mornings, I'm flying solo. And it is a wickedly chaotic flight.

I'm convinced that no amount of Saturday preparation can account for all the random things that can happen when trying to dress four children in their Sunday best. Especially when there are dress sock thieves and garbage ties on the loose.