On Saturday night we invited some friends over for pizza. Let’s say, hypothetically, that this was a last-minute get-together. I actually knew about it for days.

When you have two dogs, two kids and a husband who doesn’t care when the house is dirty, it won’t do any good to clean ahead of time. You can’t straighten up until an hour before your guests arrive or else dirty socks and half-chewed dog bones magically appear.

After my daughter’s morning track meet we came home and went to work. She dealt with the clutter, while I vacuumed, mopped, dusted and cleaned the half bath. Although there were random shoes laying around when our friends arrived, for the most part the house looked clean. Well, clean enough anyway. They’re friends, not royalty.

Everything was fine until one of the moms in the group offered to read my son a bedtime story. She took him upstairs, made sure he brushed his teeth and got him into bed. I got a night off from the bedtime routine and my son got a night off from me rushing him through it.

So, what’s the problem? The problem is that she went upstairs.

Upstairs to the land of unmade beds and a kids’ bathroom with soap on the faucet, toothpaste on the mirror, dog hair on the floor and a huge rust stain in the tub. And there is a table in the hallway that looks like I am trying to feed the dust mites until they’ve had their fill.

If I had remembered the mess that awaited her, I would have never let her climb the steps. I was this close to faking her out and letting her believe that I’m a decent housekeeper.

Clearly, I need to be more conscious of where my guests go. Either that, or my next house needs to be a ranch.

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Yesterday, a disturbed man entered our church in the middle of mass. He didn’t appear to be homeless, or otherwise in a bad financial state. He was wearing clean, white shorts, sunglasses and had headphones on with music blaring so loud that everyone could hear it.

He walked down the center aisle and sat in a pew near the altar. When our deacon came down the steps and asked him to turn his music off, this man began to yell. Loudly.

A group of men jumped to the deacon’s aide and they escorted the intruder to the back of the church and out a set of doors. One of those men was my husband. My kids began to cry.

I won’t get in to what my husband told me this man said when they were back there, but it was a lot of nonsense and there were some threats made. The police were called. Had I known the words that were coming out of his mouth, I would have taken my kids and ran. The entire ordeal was very unsettling.

I held my weeping son with one arm and had my other arm wrapped around my daughter’s shoulder, pulling her tight. She stared up at me. Then I leaned over and whispered, “Maybe we should pray for him.”

And, once again, I was reminded that she is growing up because she replied, “I already did.”

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My son was having trouble falling asleep last night. His room was hot, as it usually is, after having the sun shine through his window most of the day, so I told him to climb into my bed where there was enough of a cross-breeze to keep him comfortable.

I lied next to him and watched him drift off. After a few moments of sleeping peacefully, he experienced that sensation of falling where you gasp and your entire body jumps. Then he settled into his pillow and dozed off for the night.

That sensation is called a hypnic jerk and my son used to experience them a lot when he was young, especially when he was sick. And, he was sick all the time.

In the mere seconds it took for his body to jolt, my mind traveled from watching a typical kid going to sleep, to the very ill child I used to know. His hypnic jerk not only shook his body, but shook my memory as well.

I thought of the heart monitor that went off constantly and the sound of him gasping for breath as his nasal passages filled with the contents of his stomach. I remembered watching him play with toys in a hospital crib, three hour long appointments with neonatologists and geneticists and him crying in pain because we just couldn’t get his meds right.

I thought of him weighing 13 pounds on his first birthday and how his GI doctor was this close to putting him back on tube feeds because of it. I remembered therapy sessions where he didn’t do anything but lie there because he simply didn’t have the energy to do anything else.

I thought of his heart diagnosis, his surgeries, and his struggles with eating, crawling, walking and talking.

I remembered everything.

I was reminded that all of those things are deep inside the boy I know now. He is tough, yet parts of his body are still weak. He is strong, but he is very small. He is smart, but still talks like a three year old. He is healthy, for now.

Although his struggles are much easier than they once were, he still faces an uphill battle each and every day.

I needed to be reminded of that; to know that he tries his best and has to work twice as hard as an average kid. I have been trying so hard to make him typical that I have forgotten that he, quite simply, isn’t.

My son is different. He is one of a kind and I wouldn’t want him any other way, even though I forget that sometimes. He is a challenge, but that makes his accomplishments all the more special. I needed to be reminded of how far he has come.

Thanks for the jolt, buddy.

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Holidays make for interesting conversations around our house. Trying to explain the importance of July 4th became so challenging that I simply started referring to it as, “America’s Birthday”.

Lent was also a complex discussion, but nowhere near as tough as the triduum (the three holy days before Easter). Throw in a Resurrection and you’ll have one confused seven year old.

I thought I did my best. Before we left for Holy Thursday Mass, I told my son that he would see the priest wash the feet of some chosen parishioners. I think this is one of the most beautiful and solemn ceremonies we have. It is a touching thing to be reminded that Jesus did this for his disciples.

My son, however? Not so solemn. Because when he smelled incense and saw smoke rising near the altar he turned to me and asked, “Mom? Is the priest making people’s feet stinky?”

Then at lunch yesterday I was sure he had grasped the meaning of Easter when he enthusiastically announced, “I can’t believe Jesus is risen!” Then he took a French fry and drew a picture of the Crucifixion in his ketchup.

Maybe all of this is my fault. I couldn’t help but think so when I was downloading pictures last night. We took the kids to the park on Saturday for an Easter egg hunt where kids were dressed in their spring finest. My son, however, was wearing a Napoleon Dynamite shirt…with cinnamon roll swiped on it. Clearly, he was not happy about this. Or, he had to poop.

And, despite the fact that I have roughly 80 wicker, one cloth and at least three plastic Easter baskets in my basement, my son was using a plastic bag. Note to self: Plastic bags are not good for egg hunts which have 6000 eggs disappear in 20 seconds. By the time you get the bag open, the eggs are gone and then you have a very sad, seven year old who only got one egg.

Not only am I lousy at explaining holidays, traditions and what is not acceptable to draw in your ketchup, but I also stink at egg hunt preparation.

My poor kid is doomed.

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