Church, etc.

One Sunday, in the hazy early moments of a hangover, going to church seemed like an easier and surer remedy for my pains than simply walking to the kitchen to procure a bagel and bringing it back into bed with me to munch on whenever a discomfort forced me from sleep back into wakefulness. Getting the bagel of course would've been much simpler than going to church—the latter required dressing, driving and smiling at the elderly, but something about venturing into the kitchen seemed impossible in those early morning moments. Everyone I've known in real life and encountered in fiction agrees that the best way to confront a hangover is with a greasy, carby breakfast, but eating has always been likelier to send me yakking than relieve me. I've often heard it said that greasy food "soaks up" the alcohol remaining in the belly from the night before, an image that in the soberest of states still makes me feel queasy. Plus, it doesn't seem to make chemic sense. Anyway, I was vaguely afraid of the bagel, and I also probably felt remorseful or anxious about my over-consumption, so I went to church, even though I'm not even a tad religious.

Some people have told me that they like reading my blog, which is really cool to me—it's the point, I admit, of writing publicly:  to be read. But knowing that anyone reads this makes blogging a trickier endeavor than it is when I just hope or imagine someone might be reading, because I suddenly feel like I should write more of whatever has appealed to people in the past, probably snarky mom humor or gentle griping about married life. Being boring scares me more than snakes, and my love letter to Bethany Cosentino—which was actually more of a whiny eulogy, either containing no jokes or itself one long joke—was not very interesting, and I know that. I figured most people, not knowing who Bethany is, would stop reading after the salutation, "Dear Bethany Cosentino." Beyond the greeting and into the content more problems emerged:  I sloppily conflated love and longing, and like a wimp I suggested that it's okay for longing to be one-sided since longing will always remain a subject of our shared conversation. But at least in my boring letter to Bethany I wasn't being flippant or offensive about God, a being on whom people wager their souls (which I also don't believe in). Today I read this status update from an old high school classmate:  "Don't put a question mark where God put a period." Within thirty minutes of posting, the update had been liked eleven times, and I kept hoping someone would post a joke in response, like, "Yeah, use a semicolon instead," or, "You mean in my underwear?" There's really nothing I want that is accomplished by alienating people, but ...

It's easy for me not to write; it's incredibly hard to write, so if I find a subject, I have to seize it and let my mind (which I don't really believe in either) make my fingers move.

So with a hangover was how I last went to a church service, but years before that I attended a Presbyterian church regularly with Mimi, my dad's mom. And although it was always an engaging experience, I haven't, since the hangover, had any interest in attending regularly again … until yesterday when Aron and I drove by a church and I suddenly remembered that the Presbyterian church I went to with Mimi offered hour-long childcare services each Sunday. "I think all churches do that," Aron said, and my mouth hung open in astonishment while my mind-soul counted how many hours of adult time would be at my disposal if I "accepted" Jesus Christ as my savior. "Holy expletive! I need to join a church next to a coffee shop," I said. I could even put Graham in a big winter jacket and as I drop him off at the church daycare say, "Is this the coat check? God bless!" But then it occurred to me that these childcare providers might not even be ordained; they're probably just random willing teenagers, and I believe in them least of all.

It has been suggested by some that it might be financially worth my while to get a job and put Graham in daycare, but the fact of the matter is that a part-time minimum wage paycheck wouldn't cover daycare costs, which is how I've responded to the suggestion. And then the suggestion gets smarter, evolves to involve the sub-suggestion that I apply for subsidized daycare assistance, known as CAPS (Child and Parent Services), so that the state foots the daycare bills while I do that important thing called work. And what can I say to that suggestion, what can I say as a poor lady? What can I say to the suggestion that I put Graham in a free daycare so that I can spend my days away from him in order to become less poor? All I can think to say is:  NO NO NO NO NO! I have been considering getting a job:  a job that would take place at night while Graham sleeps at home, in his own crib, with his father no more than one room away. It’s true that I've desperately Googled "Athens daycare services" before, but I wouldn't, I couldn't, and I won't ever actually do it. I don't think it's wrong; I think it's impossible. My mom told me that I'm going to have a hard time emotionally letting Graham go to school if we spend the first five years of his life at home together. And what can I say to that besides, Yes, yes I really am.

Quirky maternal observation of the day:  despite popular belief, sweet potatoes make poop softer than do prunes.