"Get dressed, children."
"I am dressed, Mom."
"Not in your play clothes, Henry, your church clothes. Grace, you cannot wear that shirt under that sweater dress. I can see the pattern of flowers. Henry, you cannot do anything fun or entertaining until you are dressed, even in your Sunday shoes!"
5 minutes later:
"I am dressed. Now can I watch a show?"
"No, I said even down to your shoes. And socks!"
10 minutes later:
"Can you tie my shoes."
Fight, fight, fight, eat, eat, eat, spill on Sunday clothes, nag, nag, nag.
We arrive at church with tie-less boys who have uncombed hair, and one with macaroni and cheese yellow streaking down the front of his previously pristine white shirt. Did I mention it is 1:00, so there is not really an excuse to be disheveled like this, since we had four hours more prep time than the early people?
Today in church one of the songs was "Gently Raise the Sacred
Strain." When we got to the beginning of the second verse, I sang the
words "Holy day, devoid of strife" and could not sing for the rest of the
verse because I was seized by a fit of completely irreverent maniacal laughter. Pregnancy hormones? Maybe. Maybe not.