I really despise Sunday mornings, especially since I’m now teaching Sunday School. I have to get up extra early and since my husband, the pastor, is already gone, I have to motivate, push and cajole my children into getting ready early, too. Here’s how this morning went.

7:20 a.m.: I wake up and tell myself (I’M A LIAR!) that I can sleep longer.

7:30 a.m.: I hear my 8-year old head to the bathroom, so from bed, I call out, “Hey, can you take a bath?” So he does.

7:45 a.m.: I crawl from bed and turn on the hot water for my shower. Apparently, my dear son has had a deep, hot bath because even after five minutes of running, the shower is tepid.

8:00 a.m.: I wake the boys and ask them to shower. I think by now the water might be hot enough for two showers. I’ve decided to skip mine–I took one last night before we went out–and so I proceed to get ready.

A few minutes later, one son is in the shower and I am putting on contact lenses. That’s when I drop one into the murky water pooling in the sink. I wore glasses to church today because that was my last contact lens.

8:30 a.m.: I am about ready. The boys are ready. My daughter is asleep. I attempt to wake her. She begins to cry. I agree to cover her back up and let her sleep a bit. I give her a few minutes. Five minutes later, after assembling all her clothes, I tell her she has to get up. She protests, but I swoop in and before she knows what’s happening, I have her in tights, her jumper and Mary Janes.

9:00 a.m.: We arrive at church only ten minutes late.

After we arrive, I don’t mind Sunday mornings. But I hate, hate, hate getting up on Sundays.

I am so grateful for two weeks of vacation from school. I am so grateful for electricity. (Some people in our area still don’t have power.) My gratitude helps me overlook the dastardly deed that occurred this afternoon . . . and which I will describe in lurid detail tomorrow. (Or at least I’ll describe using a few choice adjectives.)