Getting the kids to church on Sundays can be difficult.
Making all four kids get up, get dressed, maybe eat something, and get in the car is hard enough. But the fifteen-minute car ride to the church has begun to be the worst part.
The fighting has gotten so bad we have been taking two cars to church, just to allow the children a buffer zone away from each other.
Last week, however, there was a problem with the second car’s battery, forcing all six of us back into one car for the dreaded Sunday morning ride.
It started right away when we all got in. The twins began shoving each other and quarreling over a toy. GG insisted Boo was sitting in her seat and felt perfectly justified in sitting ON her sister and buckling the seat belt around herself while Boo screamed that she was being crushed.
I started hollering directions from the drivers’ seat: “GG! Get off your sister! Boo! Stop that noise! Little Boy! Give that back!” My husband knocked on the window. “Let me drive,” he said, in his I’m-the-reasonable-adult-voice.
I got out in a huff, annoyed that he was implying he was better able to drive calmly with all the chaos going around behind us. The kids finally settled in their separate seats but continued to quarrel and snipe at each other.
I sat angrily in the passenger seat and watched my husband placidly buckle his seat belt and start the car. He seemed to be humming a little tune to himself as he drove the van out of the garage and down the street.
Obviously he was out to prove he was the better parent, I thought. He was trying to show that I was the screaming-shrew mom and he was the calm-and-cool dad. I seethed.
Then I noticed something stuffed in his ear. I peered closer.
“Aha!” I said. “You’re wearing earplugs!”
He glanced over at me. “What?” he said.
I guess he wins.
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