Sunday Coming Not So Softly…

Sunday Coming Not So Softly…

Saturday night we saw Mad Max in the theatre. I spent 50% of the time being in awe of the movie and the other 50% thinking of ways to get Billy to agree to let James, the twelve year old, see it. Alas, it’s not going to happen.


Fifty percent of the people in this picture are allowed to see Mad Max. 

Sunday we went to church. Church cracks me up. Not because the preacher is particularly funny, even though he is funny enough as preachers go, but because I catch myself behaving like a general lunatic whilst attending.

Here’s your example:

The pastor will say something along the lines of ‘it’s good to pray for one another‘ and in my head I immediately think ‘that’s right! Billy does need to pray for me!‘ Or he’ll say ‘spend some time reading the Bible‘ and I’ll think ‘Uh huh! Billy sure does need to read his Bible.’ Basically whatever the pastor says I turn it around and use it against Billy.

I’m sure that’s exactly what the pastor intends when he preaches – for all the people out in the audience to  think of reasons their friends need to hear the sermon. I’m just the worst. What the heck is wrong with me?!

If I’m not casting side glances at Billy I’m trying to make Stella behave. Lately all my kids have been boycotting their classes and attending the sermon with us. I have no clue why. Their classes are great. Bible, Beer, and Babies is all about her kids being in the sermon with her – its a new thing for me, though.

So, Stella drives me nuts by standing up and squirming, and dropping a thousand things and asking to go to the bathroom. The bad news is we sit smack dab in the front. That’s my fault. I have ‘can’t pay attention in big church’ issues.

The positive news is that we sit directly in front of a large contingent of hipster singles so, hello, birth control for them!

An added bonus to having her in the sermon? She’ll randomly pick up on things the pastor says and loudly make remarks on them while he’s talking. And she’s the absolute queen of taking things out of context.

“Did he just say dat da world hates us? Why does da world hate me? Dat is so sad!”

Every Sunday after church we go to Phil Sandoval’s. A couple reasons for this, the first being, hooray for Mexican food. The second being it opens at 10:45 and we get out of church at 10:30. So a win on both counts.IMG_3728

Being home by 11:45 on Sunday makes the day seem so long. Plenty of time to go to the creek, ride our bikes, and listen to the kids complain.


The complaining? That’s because last year we instituted a ‘No Screen Time Sunday’ rule. We just needed one day where we didn’t have to hear ‘can I get this app’, ‘can I watch this show’ and ‘is it my turn on the X Box.’ Mercy, we hear it enough!

The problem with it being on Sunday is then the kids have this dread of Sunday. It’ll start Saturday night. ‘Ugh, tomorrow is Sunday!’ they say. ‘The worst day of the week. No screen time!’ 


Well, we’re a work in progress.

Kinda like me listening to the sermon…definitely a work in progress.

La Dolce Sunday: May 17

La Dolce Sunday: May 17

Time for another edition of La Dolce Sunday. Where I give a shout out to the coolest stuff I came across this week!

Let’s just get this one out of the way: Is this the greatest t-shirt ever? Yeah, pretty much. It’s from the Trendy Sparrow on Etsy.


Billy and I had a rough Mother’s Day so I felt justified in paying the $40 for it. Yeah, I’m super mature like that.

As for my favorite blogs of the weeks…

This was a beautiful and uplifting piece about losing and finding your mother by Jessica Hoover: 

It frightened me how the grief choked me to my core. 38 weeks pregnant, lying on my bed fending off a cold and all the questions rolling around in my brain. Sobs rocked my body and threatened to crack me down the middle.

My husband tenderly asked me what was the matter and after what felt like a short eternity of tear filled gasps I managed to lisp out, “I just miss my mom so much. I want her to be here to take care of me.”

My mom didn’t die last year. No, she died when I was twelve. I’ll be thirty-one in two weeks.

Colleen at Blessed are the Feet has a fantastic piece this week about celebrating your kid’s growing up instead of bemoaning it.

And all I could think was how I wanted to gather all the mamas who have walked this journey with me and are snapping shots of these almost adults and shake them and say, “Y’all! We did it. I mean, not all the way, but we are doing this thing! This motherhood thing. And we are doing a darn good job too! Look at these amazing people we grew inside ourselves and then grew outside ourselves and who are now almost all grown! They are incredible. And we raised them!”

Yes, we will grieve for their growing up and growing away, but, mamas, this was the thing all along. And we are rocking it!

And finally, let’s all take a moment of silence for this beautiful ponytail. I just couldn’t take the heat anymore and chopped it off.


The ponytail is dead. Long live the ponytail.

Grandmom’s Panties…

Grandmom’s Panties…

My neighbors peonies are stupid pretty this year. They’re nice every year but this year they really shine. See:

IMG_3611Uh, let me try that again:


That’s better.

I don’t have any but I’d like to. My mother in law also grows them. You kinda gotta be careful when talking about peonies though. I’m not sure if you’ve ever said the word aloud but it sounds a frightfully lot like the word panties.

Go on and try it. I’ll wait…See, I told you so!

This afternoon Stella went for a visit and I told her ‘oh Stella, look at Grandmom’s peonies!’ To which she replied “Use your manners! You’re not supposed to use the word panties out in public! And I don’t even see any of Grandmom’s panties out here.’

IMG_3648“Use your manners!”

She has a point. It’s like the word shih tzu. There’s just no way to say it without things being awkward.

Speaking of awkward, I found this picture on my phone. Hank, the nine year old, confessed to taking it. It’s  me. Just sitting around eating leftover french toast.


I asked him why he took the picture and he said ‘Oh, I was going to send it to Christina.” And then he commenced with a wild giggling fit.

Christina is my nutrition counselor. I’m supposed to send her a picture of everything I eat. What a punk! I can’t believe he was trying to rat me out.


“Oh yeah, I was.”