|The Kellermans are here to look at the stained glass and use your bathroom.|
I'd like to start today by saying that the warnings on self-tanners, which clearly instruct the user to wash their hands after using said tanner, aren't joking.
It's like I have traffic cones for hands.
Let me direct you this way, where we'll talk about this weekend instead.
When Sunday came around, Husband wasn't feeling well, so I did what any rational person would do and proclaimed, "Mom's going to church. Who's coming with me?"
For a woman who stares at the popcorn ceiling at night and plans how she'll don a wig, glasses, clean pants and hop on a jet to escape the children by the time Wednesday comes around, I do a terrible job when it gets down to brass tacks.
And so they all followed me out to the van. The baby got his way, as he always does, and demanded he be carried. I really need to file a complaint with someone about that. My hip's starting to look like one of those natural rock shelves hewn in an ocean wall no one knows about.
The church goers didn't necessarily tremble with fear when they saw me lead my pack through the doors, but they also say the Spartans didn't show fear before the Persians came barreling into that pass.
All my people who want to start a slow clap for history, go ahead. The rest of you may follow me into the bathroom, the place where I spent the entirety of mass. Traditionally, I've always sat in the actual church, but that was before I had children who can now hold over my head the threat of peeing right next to where people are trying to talk to the good Lord.
"But I really have to go."
"But I haffa go too."
All three of them looked at me while I inclined my head, asked Jesus to forgive the small pieces of cereal left behind our dysfunctional Hansel and Gretal tale, but also explained that I may need them to find my way back to the pew due to being blinded by the baby slapping me in the face.
We did this three times.
The thing about spending church in the bathroom is the feeling you might still be at your house and not at church at all.
But you do know you're at church because your child is the one trying to look under the stall. You also still know you're not at home because your child has also locked the stall and there's very little you can do to keep them from looking under the stall, while echoes of, "Who's that, Mama?" prompt you to lean on the stall and say,
"I'm losing my mind."
Luckily, the woman who heard me make this statement of fact ambled out of the stall and gave me a look that said, "You need Jesus," the irony of which didn't escape me.
My only consolation showed up while keeping the baby from waving himself in front of the automatic paper towel dispenser. Perhaps I was spending church in the bathroom, but did twins having to go to the bathroom at the same time, three times in a row count as a miracle? Someone phone the Vatican.
Oh, and I suppose another silver lining was found in the woman who walked up and said very sweetly, "This was me twenty years ago," and smiled.
I found this comforting because twenty years in the future, I still have decent hair with a good amount of sheen and respectable luster. I also don't have orange hands.
Until Next Time, Readers!