Sunday, September 2, 2012

Like father, like sons

We get ready for church in stages.

Get dressed too early, and we risk having to get dressed again after breakfast spills all over the children (or is rubbed all over our freshly ironed shirts, depending on which munchkin we're sitting next to).

So on Sundays, we take particular care with the order in which we do things so as not to spend too long in our pajamas (causing the kids to dawdle and make us late) or too long in our church clothes (which just invites them to do things like drink milk out of their cereal bowls or crawl under the couch and collect year-old dust bunnies in their hair and clothing).

I call this part of the getting-ready process the "Don't put your shirt on until it's time to go" stage. At some point on Sunday morning, every male in my house (save the littlest one, who has yet to wear pants) will be traipsing around in khakis and a white undershirt.

I have a strong aversion to having members of my family dressed alike. This is as matchy-matchy as we'll ever get.

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