Easter Sunday, and I missed mass.

I didn’t lent. I also didn’t get Easter baskets, or cook a ham, or house a get together, or go to mass… I am a bad Catholic. I have had a bad two weeks, then again, God is supposed to instill hope in people, but I fear he gave up on me this week. I assume God is understanding, and is watching me like, “girl, I understand. You get your shit together, then come back and see me.”

Actually, I haven’t celebrated Easter in years. I’m not even sure my kids realize it’s Easter. Don’t tell them, lest I have to run out and grab half off baskets at Wal-Mart once they throw me on a guilt trip over not getting them baskets. They are masters of the guilt trip, as they learned it from me, and I learned the art from Spanish Catholic moms. If you grew up with a Catholic mom, you’ll know what I mean about the guilt trip. They know how to make you feel bad over something that happened before you were born.

“I remember this one time I was pregnant with you and I was craving pizza, but was so nauseated I couldn’t eat it. You did this to me. Why? I loved you so much.”

Its an art that comes in handy, but will be used on you when you least expect it.

And that makes me laugh.


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