Why settle for one Halloween costume, when you can combine them all into one?
It was a crappy day, and I was in a crabby mood.
I had finally come to a place of peace, and perhaps…dare I even say it…a place of optimism, in the midst of difficult circumstances. Then I received new deflating information that seemingly ripped the rug of hope right out from under me.
To top it off, the house was a disaster, our van was leaking fluids, and my kids – my two, sweet, darling children – were driving me up the wall.
Jackson was all hopped up on sugar, running around the house in a random assortment of Halloween apparel. He alternated between jumping on the couch (which he’s been strictly forbidden to do) and screeching at the dog like a vampire bat, a steady stream of saliva dripping off the pink, plastic fangs gripped between his teeth.
Emma, my 10-year-old who amazes me with her brilliance, lay draped across the recliner like a sloth, staring into the screen of a hand-me-down mobile device I will forever regret letting her have. “Emma!” I called, the irritation in my voice growing by the minute. “Have you picked up your backpack yet?”
“I forgot,” she told me for the third time that evening, not bothering to move a muscle or even to glance in my direction.
I looked at the clock while stirring the chicken and vegetables. 20 minutes. 20 freaking minutes left to finish dinner, feed the family and get out the door to parent teacher conferences.
Meanwhile, an entire conversation was playing out in my head, and it was a doozy. The imaginary, filter-free version of myself was unloading a series of snarky, calculated barbs on people I blamed for my current state-of-mind.
Ding! The microwave interrupted my inner dialogue, signaling the tortillas were adequately warmed.
“Jackson! Emma! Get in here!” I yelled, “Robert! Start dishing yours up; we gotta go.”
Days came running from every direction, converging at the dining room table.
“Jackson,” I said, still standing on the other side of the counter. “You pray, and then you guys can start eating.”
He bowed while I continued to dip.
“Der Sheshush. Shank you fer dis duy.”
He paused, and I looked up just in time to see him removing the pink plastic apparatus from his mouth.
“Hold on, I gotta remove my fangs,” he said matter-of-factly, then launched right back into his prayer.
I looked at Robert, and he looked up at me, barely able to hold it together. It was just the jolt I needed to distract me from the funk.
Perhaps I need to make some adjustments myself.
After all, it’s hard to talk to Jesus, when your fangs are showing.