This weekend, by the numbers

5 – Number of processed, frozen, chopped, formed, “breaded” fish sticks eaten Friday.  Um, yay, Lent. Or something. I guess.

4 – Number of children spoiled with post-Sunday dinner spring evening Icees.

3 – Number of nights of falling asleep in my recliner for an hour or so before shuffling up to bed.  Err, well, that’s a guess a moment, since I’m writing this on Sunday evening.  But I’d say odds are good I fall asleep in that big comfy chair here in a few hours, long before I make it upstairs to begin plaguing the Puddinette with The Nightly Snoring.

2 – Number of times I attended Mass.

1 – Number of family weddings the Puddinette and I had to privilege to  enjoy

0 – Number of UK Basketball games watched.  And as the Wildcats advanced to the Final Four with a pretty commanding defeat of Baylor in the South Region Finals on Sunday, go ahead and feel free to thank me for not watching the games and potentially invoking the Puddin UK Jinx.  I encourage the Big Blue Nation to send checks, money orders, small bills, or gift cards. Or, just name your first born after me.  That’s cool, too.

For those of you that know me well or have been visiting here long enough to have a sense of my priorities, this weekend’s #2 item is likely to raise some eyebrows.  Actually, that’s a bit of an understatement.  Depending on how well and how long someone’s known me, that little particular might be enough to send him/her and their entire extended family into the underground bunker with a few tons of canned goods and a long-term water supply.

Yeah, I’m pretty sure me going to church twice in the same weekend easily would’ve once been seen as one of the Seven Signs.

But then I had kids.  Kids change a lot of things.

Howzzat?  Well, it’s all started when the Puddinette attempted to wake me early this morning and asked what I wanted to do about Mass.  Admittedly, I don’t remember my exact response, but I believe it was, initially, “Mmrbmmr mgmhghghgfpph.”

Following what I can only assume was a quite significant sigh (of epicness), I was then, um, enthusiastically encouraged to wake up immediately, if not sooner.  Also, her elbow may or may not have been employed to this end.  She then asked again what I wanted to do about church.

Obviously, being Good and Lazy, and feeling smugly satisfied for already having attended Mass on Saturday for the family wedding referred to in item #1, I replied that we were good for the week.  Also, that I’d be going back to sleep immediately, if not sooner, thankyouverymuch.

My lovely wife, being a properly devout Catholic, murmured, Marge Simpson-style, and then pointed out that a Saturday afternoon wedding Mass does not, regardless of one’s wishes to the contrary, fulfill the weekly obligation.

I suspect she hoped a healthy dollop of good, old-fashioned Catholic Guilt would seep in to my clearly shriveled, dark, sleep-deprived soul and take root, blossom, and grow into a willingness to get my lazy backend out of bed and Do The Right Thing.  Unfortunately for her, I’ve been immune to Catholic Guilt since I was a teenager.  I must’ve accidentally gotten some kind of booster vaccine for it when I was young.  It’s never worked for Grammy Puddin, either.

At any rate, unconvinced, I rolled over and committed myself back to sleep.

Sometime later, the Puddinette returned to roust me again after seeing to the usual morning responsibilities, e.g, making sure the three year-old isn’t procuring his own breakfast.  Oh sure, you’d think a three year-old could handle it, but somehow that typically results in a meal of 3 or more Girl Scout Dos-Si-Dos, a piece of cold, leftover pizza, a handful of marshmallows, and, if it can be reached via kitchen chair, Moose Tracks ice cream.

Anyway, when she came back, she informed me that my three older children had already dressed themselves, and all of them had chosen church-appropriate clothing without having been instructed to do so.  That’s right, my kids put on the Sunday morning collared Polo shirts of their own accord.

Now, as a man hoping to have a proper lie-in, this was unfortunate news.  All hope of extended laziness disappeared faster than the execution of a Kardashian pre-nuptial agreement. 


As a father, hoping that at least some of the potentially questionable “wisdom” one tries to teach your kids will eventually stick, it was a banner moment.  Sunday had come, and even though I’ve never met a 9, 8, or 6 year-old who really enjoyed or looked forward to Mass (I’m sorry, maybe that’s just me, but honestly, have you ever met a child that would rather be just about anywhere else?), mine have accepted the weekly practice as a matter of course.

Catholic Guilt wasn’t enough to get me out of bed and ready for church this morning, but the Parental Guilt? 

Yeah, that did the trick.

So, two Masses in two days.  And the world didn’t end.  Well, yet, at least.

That’s means I’m up one, right?

Any chance this works like comp time?