I woke up early yesterday. I never understood before why Pache got up early when her kids would sleep til 8:30 or 9. Now I know. The house is so peaceful at 6 a.m. I found myself actually ironing Derek's shirts. Bizarre, I know.
Derek cruised into the room around 9.
"I'm ready for church." And there he stood in all his 6'3" glory. Wearing his beat-up shorts and his Christmas present from my wicked sister this year--"Beer is my new religion. Would you care to join me in a prayer?"
It was his idea to be Presbyterians this week. The church has been around for a million years, is 4 blocks away, and according to Derek, "has a highly regarded preschool." Premature thinking for an 8 week old baby, but whatever.
"AAAAAHHHHHHHHH, no. We don't even know if this is a USA or a PCA church."
Not knowing (or caring for that matter) about the distinction, he waxes on about how God really doesn't care about what you wear to church. All I can think about is that "causing others to stumble" concept that was drilled into me as a child. Even if God didn't care, what if we cause all the old ladies to be so horribly mortified that they would miss the homily? Not that they hadn't heard 500,000 homilies in their time and could probably tell you when Pastor Mike had a busy week watching NCAA finals and was recycling one because he had slacked off.
Bitter, he changed his clothes and off we were to be Presbyterians. Well lucky for us he changed, because the church turned out to be a USA church. Thank God I had put my Miami cleavage shirts away, because it was bad enough that I was the only woman there in pants. 90% of the church population was over 80 and there were easily 150 people there.
It all worked out anyway, because right during the most solemn and deep part of the homily, Ethan filled his pants. Big time. I'm not sure what was worse, the loud fart or the giggles around us. I don't think we are getting invited back.