We had good intentions this morning.
Everyone got a decent night's sleep. Filled our bellies with a warm breakfast. Got into the shower and dawned our Sunday best.
And approximately 20 minutes before we were to get into the car and head out the door for mass...the aliens invaded.
The baby went ape shit. No lie. Inconsolable. Teething like a crazy lady. Crying like it was her job. The big kids decided that this gave them license to begin running in circles like lab rats on a wheel screaming at the top of their lungs, "No church, no church, no church."
I started sweating profusely, dropped the diaper bag, turned to my husband and said, "Screw this." He smiled and said, "Who wants to get doughnuts?" And that's where they are now...while I'm typing and drinking a hot cup of coffee.
Best laid plans. They're necessary and yet a joke at the same time.
Take for example the fact that I made my second trek to Urgent Care on Friday afternoon to get what I'm hoping will be my last needed antibiotic of the winter season. I begged the nurse practitioner to give me anything that would annihilate this infection, even if it killed me. I'm so freaking sick of sore throats, snot, and swollen lymph nodes I could spit.
That said, all of it is a good lesson. It's nice to have an idea of how you want something to go down, but it's so futile to be pissed when it doesn't. The magical stuff always happens in the cracks...you know, those tiny moments and places that weren't scripted...when your daughter says, "Let's play family...I'll be the sister, you be the mommy...just say, 'ENOUGH ALREADY' when I try to take this toy'." Great. It's hysterical, beautiful, and real all in the same moment.
Life brought us doughnuts instead of communion this morning.