For God's Sake, It's An HOUR.

And it is for God's sake - I'm talking about church, here. But the kids think a single Presbyterian service lasts as long as the summer solstice and protest each week like I've asked them to put their clothes away or watch Gandhi.

It's an hour of your week, kids - deal with it.

Like a lot of new parents, Jim and I decided to regularly attend church when our first daughter was born, for the same reason most new parents do - free childcare.

And also we wanted our family raised amongst people who love God.

So we joined our local Presbyterian church, where we have cultivated amazing friendships, and once a week I am able to relax, meditate, and focus on the upcoming week with priorities in place.

Hahahahahahahahaha!!!!! I, of course, am only kidding about that second part.

What happens instead is that we begin the morning with coffee, the Sunday paper, kids relaxed, and everyone happy. Then we look at the clock.

"Kids!!!!! Shower time!!! Church is in FORTY MINUTES!!!!"

"But this show's not over!"

"Do I look like I CARE??? GO!!! NOW!!!"

"Tara, you need to hop in the shower first, because you take the longest to get ready."

"I don't THINK so. You're the one who suddenly acts like a metrosexual everytime we have to go somewhere."

"I hate being late, and it's always your fault. You have to dry your hair. Go shower."

"Are you telling me what to do? Because I can get ready in half the time you can, Mr. 'I-Just-Took-A-Nice-Relaxing-Steam-Shower."

"Prove it, then."

"Why, so you can drink more coffee and read Parade? YOU go shower first."

"Fine. You finish getting the kids ready."

"But...I take the longest to get ready. I get the first shower. HA."

I call it PCD, or Pre-Church Dysfunction.

But ultimately, with wet hair, tears, and throbbing neck veins, we all somehow make it to church each week.

When we finally arrive (it's only across the street, by the way), the first thing we do is take advantage of the nursery by placing our four-year-old there for the entire length of the service. We assume that if we say she's three, no one will check.

We then spank the other girls into the sanctuary, find our usual spot, and forget to space ourselves accordingly.

Yes, spacing is essential. Because our older two daughters, who usually fight like Bloods and Crips, suddenly become BFF's and act like they're at a sleepover, complete with incessant chatter, shoe removal and, well, sleeping.

The proper spacing goes: adult, child, adult, child. But we usually start: child, child, adult, Jim.

So after we realize our fatal error several nasty looks and boisterous games of Hangman later, we properly rearrange ourselves between the two girls, separating them like Romeo and Juliet. The oldest daughter then loses all muscle tone because she's mad and bored. She hunches over, sulks, sighs audibly, asks when it will be over, and rolls over onto her side like she's on a Greyhound bus.

I turn red, grit my teeth, and refrain from twisting her knee, but do kindly ask her to stop being a "jackass." Jim then sparates the two of us, thereby placing the girls beside each other once again.

The people around us love us, they do.

Today, we had communion, or as my middle daughter calls it, "when we get to have snacks."
I have explained the reverence of this sacrament to the girls, by the way, but somehow it still becomes a competition. When the bread plate comes by, they 'shop around' for the largest piece and then race to see who can consume it the fastest.

Yet for some reason they insist on slowly sipping the grapejuice, like it's aged single-malt scotch.

"Just toss it back there, kids! Geez!"

I am in church for a reason.

We also had an infant baptism today, which distracted all of us for, like, three minutes. However, the baby screamed his head off the whole time, prompting my girls to ask if they did the same thing when they were baptized.

"No, but Nanny (oldest) spat up all over the carpet," I said with a smile.

"I guess I never did like church," Nanny replied, resuming her slumber.

Ode to Joy, indeed.

Finally, the hour is over, and I am more tense than I was the last five minutes before we ever left the house. The kids run out of the sanctuary like they're being chased by witches, and Jim disappears to go find other extraverts.

I'm left gathering up the bulletins, crayons, sunglasses, and other items that will live on the floor of my car for the next month. But before I go, the choir is still singing,

"God be with you 'till we meet again, "

Amen to that.