Let There Be Spark

How a Harrington concentrates. 

Tonight Last night Sunday night (I've been pulled away from this post many, many times so Sunday night it is), I playfully scrunched up my nose, furrowed my brow, and tilted my forehead toward Chris, leaning in close to deliver my half-joking question. "Do you think we still have spark?"

"I don't know, do we?"

After a morning of wail-full grocery shopping, I somehow managed to arrive at the Basilica with both boys in tow juuuuuuuuuust in time for the Gospel. My mind was singing, "Alleluia!" as I heard the same glorious word wafting from the door as I heaved the car seat up the stairs and held Ryan's hand. (By the way! If you are going to Mass at the Basilica on a day when it is really cold... so every day this winter ... and you have a baby, the guard lets you park right next to the Basilica! Fun fact. Just leave a spot for us!). Chris can't sit with us the first half of Mass, but a kind girl scooted on over upon seeing my frantic, "Ahhh the music is about to stop and then everyone is going to hear my steps searching for a spot," eyes. You know the look, right?

Halfway through the homily, Ryan started to announce that he had to use the necessary, although he didn't necessarily use that phrase. And so we began the long trek around the church all while everyone is seated. I'd prefer that Ryan just not go to the bathroom during Mass, but if he has to, it would be nice if we could walk while everyone is standing unlike Sunday. Instead we stuck out as we snuck out with Conor peeking over my shoulder shoving fistfuls of hair into his mouth while Ryan marked our cadence by reminding all of his pending pee.

We had a little hiccup when Ryan demanded to quench his thirst from the drinking fountain, so I hefted him up while he drank water with the accuracy of a two year old operating a drinking fountain. 'Tis true, and 'tis wet. We finally made it into the bathroom stall and began the whole pee production. One boot off the wee one who has to wee, and the wee, wee one starts wailing. Really wailing. He must not have remembered that we were in the spot where I first came to know of his existence.

So there I was crouched down balancing and bouncing one shrieking son on my knee while convincing the other son to lean on me instead of the toilet while I tried to read him for the commode. Finally, I wrapped my arm around him and heaved him up and placed him just so as he chided, "Cay-ful, Mom. Ryan fall." Shriek, wail, cry, "Mom, hold me," shriek, wail, cry, "I did it!" (he didn't) echoed over and over until I heard the bathroom door creak open and the best voice in the world breaking up the monotony of the clamor. 

My sweet knight in shining armor of mine had come to rescue me when one little prince was reigning on a public throne and the other was having a royal fuss. 

Well, with romantic, rescuing gestures like that, I still feel the spark. Wouldn't you?