Sunday Confessions

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Last week I wrote about the Sunday morning alter egos of kids, and the abject horror that ensues between the hours of 7 am and 12 pm. You don't even know.

Unless you are responsible for kids in the altered state of Sunday consciousness.   Then, YOU KNOW AND I'M SORRY AND LET'S GET TOGETHER AND DRINK*.

*Coffee.  Because bedtime is still a long way off and Imma need to be on my A-game.

Shortly after I posted that blog, my youngest child managed to break an "unbreakable" dish filled with oatmeal.  As I wiped up the slime, taking care to avoid the billion shards of "unbreakable" dinnerware, I thought, "Pride cometh before the fall, CORELLE."

The following Sunday.  Mercy.  I'll give it to you à la Jeff Foxworthy.

It Might Be Sunday Morning If:

1. It might be Sunday morning if you come downstairs to find the bottom third of all sliding glass doors covered in green crayon scrabble.  And an empty sleeve of Ritz crackers, an empty bag of chocolate chips, and an open honey bear on the counter, all sitting in a pool of honey.

2.  It might be Sunday morning if you pull a pair of jeans out of the hamper and say, "If anyone mentions it, I'll say I spilled it ON THE WAY to church."

3. It might be Sunday morning if the smoke alarm short circuits, just because, and blares until he feels heard.

4.  It might be Sunday morning if you have to SHAKE OUT THE BLANKETS, LOOKING FOR TURDS.

5.  It might be Sunday morning if you break a sweat walking to the car.

I know that I am not alone.

Last year, I texted my friend Megan a Sunday Confession every week.

It started with a picture of what my bed looked like after I tried on every single article of clothing I owned. Then me putting baby powder in my hair because I was out of dry shampoo. Then wearing my husband's dress socks because I couldn't find my navy nylons.

Over the course of several months I texted her a picture of me filling in the scuffs on my boots with a SHARPIE. My good hair-day selfies. Henry's cranial injuries du jour. The state of my kitchen after my children fed themselves breakfast, like ravenous wolves with no sense or opposable thumbs. And a lot of "Reasons My Son is Crying."

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So this is something I've been thinking about for a while - and now I'm doing it, and I'm asking you to take the plunge with me.

I'm hijacking the hashtag #Sundayconfessions.

Instead of just texting my friends, I'm going to LET YOU INTO THE MADNESS.

If you have kids, you will laugh. You will cry.  It will speak to you.

If you don't have kids, we haven't forgotten.  We know that our lives were insane before kids in the house, and that they will be insane after the kids leave.  Please show us some real life.  Give us real talk.

#Sundayconfessions will be exactly ONE MILLION TIMES AS FUN if you play along.

Did your cat uproot all your potted plants this morning*?  #Sundayconfessions!

Did your todder jam up the faucet while the bath water was running, causing water to rain from the light fixtures in the kitchen*?  #Sundayconfessions!

Did your daughter sing the chorus to Pitbull's Calle Ocho in the church nursery*?  #Sundayconfessions!

Did you spill something?  Break something?  Did you take a selfie as a grown adult because you were feeling JUST SO FLY?  Did you eat brownies for breakfast?  Give the kids coffee?  What did you have to resort to to get out of the door this morning?  We want to know.

We want to encourage you.  We want to let you know that YOU ARE NOT ALONE.  We want to laugh with you, cry with you, and hold a little space for real life on Sundays.   Tag your pictures, statuses, and tweets with #Sundayconfessions, and let the games begin!


*This actually happened to me.