Sunday Morning Coming Down.

I’m not sure if it's due to zealous religious education as children, laziness, indecision or the fact that we’re pretty much hungover on Sundays, but the Big Dude and I never really been hip on formal religion. We aren't heathens; there are rules, there are morals. There are most certainly commandments. “Thou shall not drink Mommy’s Pepsi if it smells like aged oak barrels from Lynchburg, Tennessee” being a big one…but we’ve never really scrubbed the little dudes behind the ears and drug them off in stiff clothing to sit on uncomfortable seats and be told by other people how to act. I don’t feel too awfully bad about it, because they’re very good, respectful kids, and they’re pretty much scared enough of me that I don’t need to add a village, thanks anyway Hilary, but every once in awhile I wonder if they’ll run for the first cult that approaches them on a college campus just out of curiosity.

Son number two, the one known as “Pete” even though that totally is not his name, is the most religious one in the family – most likely due to an eight-month stint at an Episcopalian preschool. The school wasn’t that religious if you showed up late everyday and missed the mini-chapel time – however, his teacher was a nice southern Baptist woman who began every meal and snack time with a prayer of “Dear Jesus…” when you read that make sure “Jesus” has about nine syllables in it please. When he was three, he did enough prayin’ for all of us.

I also am Godmother to two beautiful 14 year olds and I probably should have tried a little harder to be some sort of influence on their religious education…besides holding them at a midnight Easter service 14 years ago, my biggest contribution has been that they read this blog and learn new and creative ways to use the F word without, you know, actually USING the F word. (Frick. Fahk. Friggin. Effing. And so on.) I’m thinking though, that their parents really did a very good job, and the Godmothering contract is only in case something would’ve happened to their parents, and then I would have needed to step in and drag them to church. Right? And so now they’re old enough that they don’t really need that from me anyway, and now I can just advise them about boys and buy them beer. Not really. Maybe. I can’t be sure. We’ll have to see how that one goes.

Anyway, all this rambling about our somewhat lackadaisical approach is really just to get the point that this morning, the 9 year old unofficially known as Pete was having a dramatic moment dreading state standardized testing and proclaimed, “I just prayed to Jesus that Zeus would strike me with a lightening bolt.” So, maybe we might just kinda have some work to do. Hopefully it's not too late to get him a Godmother.