Andrew does not have choir practice tonight. That is what I told David this morning, which was followed by a twinge of guilt as I watched David bravely try to blink back his tears, blue eyes glistening.
No choir practice means that David does not get to go along, ride the elevator a few times and pause in the sanctuary to reenact last Sunday’s service to the best of his ability. It is one of the highlights of his week.
So, I told a fib. Andrew does have practice, but also has math and science homework, not to mention a nagging cough that would certainly make singing challenging.
If I had told David the truth, he would have expected me to take him to church without Andrew. I know, because I have had to complete that exercise before.
Please tell me that it was just a little white lie said to protect David, to keep him flexible and able to tolerate a change in schedule--much like when you tell someone that you love their hideous new haircut in an effort to protect their feelings.
Please tell me that Dante’s Inferno didn’t graphically describe one of the concentric circles of hell reserved especially for weary mothers who have lied to their children with the express purpose of preventing a church-going experience. A place where poetic justice dictates that I will be forced to spend eternity, sleep deprived, racing to church ten minutes behind schedule, praying not to receive a speeding ticket while wondering whether or not I managed to find two shoes that actually match, having perpetually forgotten my steaming mug of coffee on the kitchen counter.
Oh wait, no. I am not paraphrasing a passage from Dante’s masterpiece, but rather describing our family experience almost every Sunday morning. And that part is all fact.