At least not since I got married and had kids.  I happened to marry a sweet Southern Baptist gentlemen.  And he happened to be reared on church.  A lot of church.  Wednesday nights.  Sunday morning service.  Sunday school.  And then church on Sunday night.  My parents used to just drop me off at church.  I wanted to go because my friends went.  How cool were my friends?  How weird were my parents?  Or was it the other way around?

The limit of my dutiful wife abilities stop at Sunday morning service and now Sunday school.  That’s all I can handle.  That takes us until about 11 o’clock on Sunday morning.  My church friends are all currently eye-rolling right now.  And second-guessing the friendship.  Who complains about how much time they spend at church?  All good Christians go to church.  And they LIKE it.  Ah-hem.  Oh, I mean Amen.

The moment my children entered the world (separated by 2 years), Sunday mornings became my least favorite day/time of the week.  I dreaded it from the moment their little infant cries tore me from the blissful abyss of sleep (at 3am).  Packing bottles, diapers, wipes, more bottles, a change of clothes, pumping before I left so I wouldn’t have to nurse in front of everyone, getting them dressed and timing their feedings/poopings, getting myself ready while they cried relentlessly.  Then we’d arrive at church.

ALL those people.  All those sneezes and coughs and the shaking of hands!  Inevitably the baby would cry, need a bottle, need a change.  I’d miss half the sermon.  Why did we even bother?

My one and only day to sleep in (because my husband signs me up for 5K’s on Saturdays all the time).  To lie around lazily reading the paper, straightening up the house, getting ready for the week to come.  I don’t have that.  Ever.  Sunday is a marathon.  It’s a blur.  When it’s over it’s Monday all over again.

Church.  Something akin to eating one’s spinach.  It’s good for you, but ice cream tastes so much better.  Church is food for the soul.  So I go.  And I’m going to freaking like it.