Serves Us Both Right

J was brought up under the long-standing Catholic tradition of being late for mass and staying until the final blessing.

I was brought up under the long-standing Catholic tradition of arriving to mass on-time and jetting out right after communion.

We were both brought up under the even longer-standing widespread Northern tradition of having mass be about 45 minutes.

This has made it very tense in the Magical Mansion each Sunday. You see, I like the beginning of mass. It's the only part of mass that is different each week. The latter half of mass is the same . . .

. . . every week . . .

. . . week after week. . .

Now I know there is value in this repetition, but I just can't stand the monotony of it all without a little sugar to start it all off.

Unfortunately it seems Catholic churches in the South don't feel they've held a true mass unless it is well over an hour long. Thus unless I am willing to herd cats all Sunday morning AND try to get two children to sit quietly forEVER, we are always late for church. Very late. In fact, I don't think anyone EVER gets there after us.

It seems we've gotten our comeuppance now. We enrolled Peanut One in Sunday School and today learned the schedule.

Kids need to be there at 9:30 - the start of class.

Kids need to be picked up at 10:45 - the end of class.

Seems like God won this time - or the South, depending on how you look at it.

Daisy Duke

I sometimes refuse to admit that I live in the South now. I also have a hard time remembering that my children are Georgians. With no rhyme nor reason, I think they live in New Jersey.

Don't get me wrong. I've grown to love my life in Atlanta. There is much to be valued, learned and embraced. But there are some traits I'd rather not bring into the Magic Mansion.

Because I managed to grow up in New Jersey without that 'Owe. Maiy. Gawd.' accent, I assumed I carried some genetic trait that blocked the development of talk-to-be-made-fun-of. One Southern stereotype off my list that I figured my kids wouldn't adopt.

Once again, a Peanut proves me wrong.

Peanut Two has taken to carrying around a tiny, plastic baby in her hand. She loves it to no end and must sleep with it, walk with it, play with it. This past weekend we were at church and she decided it was to be called Baby Jesus.

Peanut Two has also taken to speaking very, very loudly with the clearest enunciation possible when she really wants to get her point across.

Now Baby Jesus is so small that it is often misplaced. Last night the search was on to find the little baby girl (yes, Jesus is a girl in our house). Peanut Two was searching all around for it, getting more and more riled up. Finally she began yelling -

"Where! ais! Bay! Bay! Jeeee! Suuus?!"

The Wise Woman of the South cometh.