WWCD

   I profess to be a Christian, and I try to lead the life of one, however, we are all human and we all think and act like humans. That means that we are outrageous a-holes most of the time. I have been taking my kiddos to church with me, and for the most part I really enjoy it and so does my son, who I send off to Sunday School. The church I attend is rather large, so all the kids get special badges with special codes imprinted on the name tags and the parents then receive matching codes so that no one can steal your child while you are in the sanctuary. I think it's great, but for some reason the kiosks and the badge printers never seem to work for me, so I spend fifteen minutes punching letters into the touch-screen, swearing under my breath, forgetting where I am.
   After everything is printed and documented and sent off in plain manilla folders to CIA head quarters, your next step is to sign your child into their specific classroom. When I first took Dominic I clearly gave our mother-son bond far too much credit, because I expected a tearful good-bye where the teacher would have to pry him from my arms, but he ran away from me, stood at the doorway and reached his arms up waiting for the Sunday school teacher to lift him up over the baby gate and into the classroom. I waved farewell to the the back of his head. He didn't even remember who he came with. Standing in between the one year old and the two year old classrooms is a rotund woman with peroxide blonde hair, a blue tooth piece in her ear, a clip board and just enough power to be truly infuriating. She barks at the parents and taps her pen impatiently trying to herd little toddlers into their appropriately aged class. It seems to me like perhaps any literate parent who knows how old their own child is can easily perform this task on their own but "Maude", ( I rechristened her. She reminds me of the mean lunch lady from elementary school... totally not cut out for work with children. Pit bulls, convicts and perhaps sharks are more her calling.) stands there each Sunday pointing and yelling. 
   As I dejectedly walk away from the first-born who has completely abandoned me, I remember I need to sign him in on a paper that asks for information that may be needed during the time they are in charge of my son. I sign his name, his age and in the spot reserved for allergies and other important medical history I write, "He's a punk :)". Maude will enjoy that I think. I then follow my dad, who is with me this week, to the small cafe the church houses where he buys a muffin, takes a bite and tells me how gross it is. 
   "It's banana! Ew!" Apparently instead of asking what kind of muffin, he just pointed at one. Maybe he was hoping for manna, given where we were. He finished off his coffee and his muffin and we entered the gigantic sanctuary that is quickly filling with people of all kinds. I love that my church is lax on dress code, but if you don't have time to brush your teeth and hair and change out of your pajamas, maybe Bedside Baptist should've been your choice church today. I am completely for worshiping just as you are, but I'm not sure it is meant to be taken as literally as some take it. I flip my hair and think to myself how on top of things I am, showing up looking decent, with two perfect children and my dad, ready to get my spiritual fill for the week. 
   Just as I am congratulating myself, my husband's ex girlfriend walks past us, and sits very nearly right behind us! I can't be positive it was her, we have never met, and I've never seen her in "real-life", but after some moderate Facebook research, I can be fairly certain, it was her. Well now what? I have to spend the entire hour sucking in my gut and flexing my buttcheeks. And for those of you reading this and thinking to yourselves how disgusting it is of me to participate in such petty behavior in church of all places, well, good for you, for being the most perfect humans alive! I made you some gluten-free, all organic eggplant brownies for your outstanding personalities!
   I tried to whisper to my dad what was going on, and he pointed and stared excruciatingly obviously, and whisper shouted "what?!?!" ten times. I decided to myself that I was acting like a 13 year old, so I let it go, and paid rapt attention to the sermon, which would've been wonderful had it not been marred by my three month old spitting up all over my super cute, yet conservative, jean jacket. I swung my hair over the puke to hide it, only to smear the regurgitated formula into my locks. Things were not going as planned. Here I was being the epitome of religious, I showed up, I judged the people who were literally wearing pajamas, I was passive-aggressive with Maude and I was attempting to show off when I saw someone I felt threatened by. I wouldn't even take communion today because the bread was all clumped together in one gross, bacteria and virus-filled basket and I reasoned that now was not a good time to get sick. 
   When all was said and done the last song of the sermon was being sung, I realized what today was even about. Christ coming to Earth to pay for our sins. All of us. Mean, old Maude, those without fashion sense, all of us. I had wasted the entire time acting like a complete brat, instead of being truly grateful for what God had done for us. I made fun of everything, including the banana muffin. I was ashamed. As the saying goes, pride goes before a fall. My daughter throwing up on me was a way to bring me back to Earth. I was just like every single person in the room with me. I felt humbled to have realized when I did how I was thinking and acting. Even worse was getting my son from his class and see him happily waving a palm branch around. Like the palm branch, we are to lay our insecurities, our judgements, and our agendas down and focus solely on Jesus. I realize we as people as far from perfect, and life is a crazy roller coaster ride, but this Easter think of my jean jacket, and Maude and remember what and who you are celebrating, and why. Happy Easter readers!