1. On Saturday Evening, I fulfilled my 2011 Lenten promise. I’ve been a member of my parish since then, and it didn’t take long to notice the music volunteers are few and far from natural hair color. I’m not knocking the level of talent, I’m simply noting the need for a few more of us without white hair to step up sing before the silver grey peaks through. My singing ability is sort like my writing; it might not be the worst on the internet, but I’m still very unsure of the way I just used that semicolon. I thought for sure, I retired as a cantor at 19, until that pesky little conscience of mine creeped and nagged and nagged some more every week since I made the commitment to sign up to help just a few short years ago. I’d like to blame the delay on pregnancy, like I do for most things, but, one thing about pregnancy symptoms is that they tend not to affect my vocal chords. Two Lents later, I got around to sending a “do you need any more singers?” email, to which I received a “yes!!!!” response in approximately 32.1 seconds. That email was sent 5 months ago. After dodging two requests, and 17 emails, I finally committed to stepping up to that scary mic this past Saturday, July 6. The reason? Jim would be away fishing, thus, shielding me from his ever encouraging, “you sounded great!” when I would rather wallow in drama and  reject each and every form of comment or criticism regardless of his authenticity because I’m a brat. 

Believe me, you few internet readers, scheduling anything when husband is away and you are a mother of three is a very bad idea, unless there is a babysitter lined up weeks in advance, which I had not. 

As a result, there I sat at Mass, sweaty, clammy, and mousy voiced, and nervous, with a perfect view of my three angels banging on the glass of the cry room as they stood screaming and crying begging for me to stop singing immediately, and return to their beck and very loud calls. My mom was generous, and crazy enough to watch all of them in the cry room, a name they took quite seriously, but it would have taken an army of saints to quiet their cries. 

And what did I think the entire Mass? “I really wish Jim was here to help me and listen to me cry because I’m so nervous and the kids are so loud, why oh why did I do such a thing when he is out of town, I’m so silly, Jesus help me, shoot that was the wrong note! Damn! No swearing, you are at church.”

As a side note, the readings were very much about nursing mothers, to which I laughed and identified, until the word “abundant” was used as a descriptor for breast. 

And I even though there is no linkup to Grace for Mass Grades….

Me: F

James: THE BIGGEST FATTEST F OF ALL

Josie: F+

Rita: F. It pains me because she is nice, but, that baby threw her neck back looking for nursing at least 400 times and cried a lot, maybe she was paying too much attention to the readings. 

My Mom: A for effort, F for giving each child a new toy and their own bag of M&M’s, including the 9 month old.

2. And what is a post traumatic new and rusty cantor to do after wrangling three shell-shocked children? Taylor Swift, not-obviously. 

In between moments of child wrangling and incessant church music humming, I spent the rest of my Saturday hoping and praying that sweet Taylor had finally moved on from that Drew character because that song was the worst, and if music writing is any indication of the man behind the song, so was he. 

Luckily for me, she no longer sings songs circa 2008. It wasn’t terrible, accept it also was. Eight year old girls screamed at pitches that made me desire parenting through a three person tantrum at 6am. Her singing was good, costumes- cool and only one was sort of slutty, dancing- interesting, eight year olds screaming- horrible. 

BUT! It was a wonderful evening with all of my sisters, in laws and blood! 

And as the second concert of the week, the first being the TREMENDOUS and hilarious!! Steve Martin with his banjo band, Taylor was most certainly the lesser. I’m sorry, sweet eternal teenager- please don’t write a song about me. 

3. After begging my sister to please drive to TS, she refused, and little sisters obey. As my head’s pulse reached borderline pound, I put on my sunglasses and popped a Tylenol. On day three of parenting solo, some sort of migraine was bound to creep into my big head. It generously came on the way to hang out with 67,000 screaming little girls. In anticipation of a difficult parking situation, I circled around as my sister gave me the direction go-ahead. 

I asked again, “are you sure this is the right way?”

“I don’t know, it looks right,” said ambivalent big sister. 

And onto the BUS LANE I drove. 

As we laughed hysterically, we also feared for our lives, unsure of which direction the buses were traveling at that particular moment of the evening. Additionally, bus lanes lack exits, turn arounds, or any other sort of ‘do-over.” Twenty minutes of driving later, we turned around near the adult book store and sped away shaken and still laughing. 

In my top 5 list of things I’m worst at, navigation and sense of direction is most certainly my #1.  

4. As my last bad decision of the weekend sans husband and parenting partner fo life, I took my kids to a movie, without researching, knowing subject matter, or feeding them dinner. 

I hear good things, but, I didn’t check, and neither did my fellow mom friend. But, on day 4 of fishing Jim, the rain came, and we needed out. The two younger sat enjoying the colors and growls and other funny monster things, as James, my number one sponge, sucked in all of the “bad, evil teacher” signs and signals the movie had to offer.  

Parenting, may or may not be my #2 on the list of worst skills.

Jim’s trip was wonderful and peaceful, just like a fishing trip should be, and only received one crazy/frantic “why haven’t you called me,” call from me.