Unlike the weekday mornings, which had somehow been optimized via repetition, or even Saturday mornings, which were for pancakes and cartoons, Sunday mornings were an event unto themselves. Dressing for church was a rushed ordeal, not only for me as a kid (dress, slip, tights, matching hair ribbon, patent leather) but my dad, who for some reason always decided to handle the business of shining his shoes on Sunday morning.
If dinner was going to be at home afterward the ham, chicken or roast had to be set up appropriately in the oven. Mom also insisted on writing the offering check before we left so dad could take it from his suit pocket and drop it into the collection plate in one smooth gesture, not fumbling for the checkbook or a pen with collection plates fast approaching (for the record, my mom still does not open her purse once the service starts, unless it is to bestow a peppermint for medicinal purposes). And my husband concurs his Sundays growing up weren’t easy, either. If he ever heard his parents lose their cool, it was likely on Sundays as they tried to herd three boys off to church in the station wagon.
Sunday morning didn’t get any easier when we became parents. We determined we needed a church with a minimum of three Sunday services so we could have another go of it if we missed our intended service. We were usually too late for one service and too early for the next. Surely other parents of young kids have also decided to just hit Cracker Barrel for breakfast and then try again an hour later.
We eschewed the nursery for the first several weeks, convinced it was a breeding ground for antibiotic-resistant strains of illness. Then we had to recalibrate our departure times because packing a bag, dressing a baby, and dressing ourselves (sometimes twice in case of a spit-up) threw off all our patterns. Once we arrived, we invested 10 minutes in the drop-off procedure that included security tags, numbered pagers and identifying stickers, not just for the kid but for all the kid’s gear. This is easy?
Maybe it’s all relative. Dress is more casual now and nobody, not even Dad, worries with shining shoes anymore. Heck, there is even automatic payment for the cheerful – and electronic – giver. But Sundays aren’t easy.
Now when I hear “Easy” I understand Richie meant mellow, peaceful, relaxed. STILL, I only wish for mornings, Sunday or otherwise, that TRULY felt EASY.*
*Couldn’t resist highlighting other Richie-composed song titles