Though we rushed and had the best intentions, we’re still leaving twenty minutes behind schedule for Easter Mass. During the short drive to the church, resisting waves of irritation, I try to find the joy.
We get out of bed at five and spend an hour and a half coaxing our fussy eater to have breakfast. Then getting washed and picking a pretty dress takes forty-five minutes. While wrestling a resistant five-year-old into a coat and boats, a drop of sweat rolling down the back of my neck, I take a moment to admonish her imaginary friend who is a bad influence. Finally, we run through torrential Spring rain to the car to find that it has just enough gas to get us to the church and then straight to a gas station. Probably.