Help me not hate Sundays

The sabbath was made for man, and not man for the sabbath. (Mark 2:27)

And sometimes I question whether the sabbath was made for Moms.

I’ve really struggled with hating Sundays. When I was about five, I had my mouth washed out with soap for screaming “I hate church!” After church, my mother felt so bad, she gave me a bowl of ice cream.

I think I need more ice cream.

I think my real trouble started last year while I was still pregnant with Rachel. There was a solid month, maybe longer, where for various reasons, I ended up in tears before church was over. And not happy-feel-the-Spirit-thank-you-for-your-talk! tears. More like, “How am I supposed to wrestle two small children all by my pregnant-with-a-third-lonesome and why the heck are you even giving me a third since anyway I’m clearly dying with the two I already have and I was obviously not made to be a mother and I’m an awful human being…” tears. You get the picture.

Hormones are not my friend. Thanks a lot, fallen world body.

Fastforward about eight months: Rachel is born, church is hard, but MAN am I in a better mood most of the time. No hiding in dark hallways while I spend the entire second hour of church bawling! And then I get slammed with a new calling: Primary president.

There are two kinds of people in this world: those who like working in the Primary (seriously, bless their wonderful hearts) and people on my team (no wonderful hearts on this side of the line). My husband is still in the bishopric (lay ministry of our ward). So our blessed Sabbath begins with meetings. Thankfully, this year our meetings only start at 8 AM (it’s been as early as 6–oy). Ryan goes to this meeting. I spend the hour getting dressed and often bathing or preparing to bathe the children.

At 9 AM, every other Sunday, I’m supposed to attend another meeting. Which Ryan is also supposed to attend. While our 5-, 3- and 1-year-old do what? We had a friend who would stay with them during that hour, but she moved. So what usually happens is that Ryan comes home after his meeting and I go back to the church (luckily only 3 minutes away) and arrive late to the next meeting and look like a slacker. Not that it makes a difference because 90% of the time I have nothing of value to add. The few times I do have something to say, it’s usually a joke. And—really, truly, Johnny Lion—less than a minute after I crack a joke to no response, someone else in the meeting will crack the exact same joke, using my exact same words, and everyone laughs. I don’t even get to make jokes? This is lame.

Once they release me, we have about half an hour to get the children all dressed and out the door to church. Except that Rachel is almost always asleep during this time. The one day a week I could really use her to wake up on the early side, she sleeps in, which makes finishing a nap before 11:00 church a joke of its own. And this time it’s okay if no one laughs. I’m not.

So sometimes if she’s really grumpy and still asleep, I just let her sleep and I miss the first hour of church. If not, I get to spend 70 minutes of church and in the pews with my three kids by myself (okay, I have gotten a lot of help over the months), trying to keep them quiet/friendly/from killing one another. In a whisper. Add to that Rebecca’s major potty training trials lately and over the last six months, I’ve spent probably more of sacrament meeting in my house than I have in my pew, listening to even a complete phrase. Ryan’s biggest struggle is not to fall asleep during Sacrament meeting. Mine is not to apostatize.

After wrestling enjoying the deep spiritual talks of my beloved brothers and sisters Sacrament meeting, I go to two hours of meetings with the children. We aren’t supposed to drink coffee, but I think some of the parents have been slipping their kids chocolate covered espresso beans in the back of the chapel. The concept of reverence is beyond foreign. It’s freakin extraterrestrial.

Every third month, I get to teach the kids a 15-minute lesson: one for the younger kids, one for the older kids. The following month, I conduct the meeting. (I think that might be a joke?) The third month, I either visit individual classes or, you know, I sit and breathe. (I’m grateful to Ryan for taking Rachel during these hours—it could be worse.)

Once church is finally over, I load up the kids in the car (usually with Ryan’s help, but I swear it only recently began occurring to him that I might like some help with this, you know, every week). I get them home, get the big kids a snack and in front of a movie, and rush Rachel into a nap. Or babbling/screaming/kicking in her crib for an hour. Whatever she feels like.

Twice a month (if I’m lucky, these Sundays alternate with my morning meeting Sundays, but obviously I’m not lucky), I then have to prepare for a meeting of my counselors & secretary in my house. Which means I spend the 90 or so minutes between putting Rachel down and the presidency’s arrival picking up all the Goldfish the kids have ground into the carpet, making out a meeting agenda, and bowing to their every! little! whim! for the kids. Then I have my meeting, with children sporadically joining us to monopolize the conversation/climb on me. Then I often get to make dinner. And dessert.

Sunday is supposed to be a day of rest, not wrestling.

Blah blah blah seasons of our life. I know. I know that this is the season of my life, and this too shall pass. There are times to teach and times to learn, as a very wise sister said to one of my friends. I get it. What I’m struggling with is 1.) getting that rest that we’re supposed to (and I so desperately need) to refuel and prepare for the week, and 2.) not hating the season I’m in.

So, any suggestions?