Stressed is Desserts Spelled Backwards

A few weeks ago, I did the unthinkable on a Sunday: I didn't stress out.

Most of my readers are in the same leaky boat as I am: LDS mother with more young children than hands, husband with important duties at church or at work (or both), and with the desire to attend church weekly, family intact. Like most of those moms, I pass through the chapels doors with children in tow in various states of irreverence. And I probably ran out of time so I'm not wearing lipstick, one eye is twitching from all the reminding/nagging I've had to do that morning, or one of my little blondes has a head full of tangles. But hey, we're all present and accounted for!

On that particular Sunday, I was on my own. The Man was in a different city on a business trip. No worries. I'm a professional parent. This is why they pay me the big bucks, right?

It started off with a decision. I'd hit snooze one (or three) too many times and was now running late. I could either leap of bed, start the yelling early as I tried to get my kids out of bed while plunging myself into my closet in search of clothes, or I could take a deep breath, taking it easy.

I chose Door #2.

Rousing the sleepyheads took three trips to their bedrooms (except for Baby, who became my saggy-diapered shadow immediately) but the kids were up. Sunday clothes selected the night before, they set to getting dressed while I showered and got myself ready. Breakfast was eaten at a normal pace, which stopped the crying fits over being rushed into a meal choice (really, it takes careful contemplation as to whether today is a cinnamon toast kind of day or if cold cereal is better suited, or the whole day would be ruined). My makeup (aka: my war paint) went on while they ate. As soon as bums were out of seats, I gave them their instructions. Plates/bowls and cups on the counter, then get your bag ready for church. Since this was a no-yelling morning, I only reminded the distracted kids about their duties before moving on with my tasks. 

While I managed to eat something, Boo got Baby dressed. The Boy made sure her church bag was stocked with a snack and her current favorite toy. Slippery soft hair was combed and contained (except for the Boy, who nearly ran away from the comb screaming...I decided not to fight that battle). My bag ready to go, I ushered the kids into the car and we head to church.

No tears. No whining. No resistance. Smiles. Holding hands. Ready to worship our Father in heaven and learn of His Son. 

It was a great Sunday.

Also? We were half an hour late.