Of Souls, Socks and Sacrament

Trying to get the boys dressed on any day is a challenge. On Sundays, it might as well be a Herculean task. See, they don’t like church clothes. And who can blame them. They’re restrictive. They’re stuffy. And people expect you to keep them clean. I just can’t wait until I can zing them with, “Well, at least you aren’t expected to wear pantyhoses.” What, don’t think it’ll work? Yeah, me neither. But I digress.

This past Sunday, after the major clothing battles had been fought and compromises reached, I figured that putting on shoes and socks would be no big deal. But I underestimated one of my opponents.

Lij and Cole went gentle, but Dylan, as his name would suggest, felt to rage. I had the temerity to suggest he wear navy socks, to match his navy slacks. He wanted to wear his white sweat socks. After pointing out the obvious virtues of my choice in inner-footwear, I asked why he didn’t want to wear them.

His answer? “Because the guys might not like it.”

Pray tell who are these guys, I wondered.

“The guys in my nursery class.” He replied as if it were obvious.

Ah, yes. At last I could see the conflict. I mean how can one truly pour one’s three-year-old soul into singing “Jesus Wants Me For A Sunbeam” when one is worried about whether the guys approve of your socks or not? How could I have been so insensitive?

By all means darling, wear the sweat socks.

By the way, for those of you keeping track, this entry means I've officially blogged more in the past two and a half months than I did all of last year. Don't fall off your computer chairs or anything (I only posted five times last year), just thought it was a fun milestone to note.