I’m probably the holiest person I know.

And by that, I mean my jeggings are splitting and there are giant holes in every bra I own. Saintly? Dear me, no. The only way I’m getting into heaven is if God gets busy settling in everyone else I know, and I slip St. Peter a fifty.

And St. Peter will say, “Just try not to call attention to yourself.”

And I’ll smile, duck in, and call over my shoulder. “You won’t even notice me. I’m just gonna try and finish writing some blog posts that’ve taken me an eternity to write anyway.”

And we’ll both laugh at the clever implication of “eternity” in two different contexts, and pretend not to notice each other in heaven’s giant lunch room.

No, I’m not holy, but I do go to church and make the whole family follow behind. As I’ve mentioned before, this worked out great when I had no kids, and could shout at other people,

“Please make your kid be quiet. Some people have to save their souls. And I don’t think I saw you at the bar last night.”

.. or when the twins were brand new and didn’t move. But, seasons change along with a mother’s medication, and now it takes everything we have to ignore the fact we’re shaking uncontrollably and make the long walk from the van to the back pew.

“Why the back pew?”, you say.

“Why Alcatraz?”, says I.

Because there’s something about church which brings out the worst in toddlers. I don’t care if you go to Mass, Temple, or any other service which requires a two year old to be still, they only have one mission, and that’s to make sure you look like a mental institution worker struggling with an inmate.

The old and the wise think it’s cute.

The hip singles (I miss that club) are wondering how long it’ll be before your baby, who’s been trying her hardest, will finally punch you in the face.

And the token pious lady in the back is sure you’re going to hell for interrupting her prayers for the rest of humanity … and also that her famous Ragin’ Cajun Chicken Chili recipe will take first at the cook off. Amen.

Meanwhile, you and your husband take turns playing, “You take him, he just head butted me,” with intermittent breaks of, “Grab her before she tunnels under that pew and steals that person’s iPhone and collection plate money, even though it would help us pay off the van a little faster.”

And all the while you wonder, “Jesus, I know you’re seeing this. Is there any way you could grant us a heavenly dome of silence to wrap around our offspring? Please pardon my gin and tonic for lunch.”

There go the covers off all the hymnals.

Find all the shoes that just got launched like shot puts.

Ignore the fact your daughter is shouting at the top of her lungs, “Jesu-th ith watchin’ me!” because you told her that so she’d keep quiet. Parenting fail.

And so it comes to an end. You pack everyone up, apologize to the Holy Spirit, and head to the liquor store to buy seven days worth of beer…

…because you only have a week to prepare to do it all over again.

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Paige Kellerman blogs about marriage, babies and gin at www.paigekellerman.com. You can reach her at .

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