Today we are carefully preparing for this holiest of weekends in the standard way: You know, getting up early, cajoling the children into doing yard work with us while they complain bitterly (“I hit my leg on the wheelbarrow!” “These sticks are hurting my hands!”), then realizing that tomorrow is Easter and we have no food and I have to go grocery shopping.
Anyway, as I wandered through the supermarket, comparing prices on various hunks of delicious pig meats (Jesus probably kept kosher, which makes the Easter fixation on giant hams rather odd), I felt almost peaceful. We got a lot done this morning. And I was shopping alone, in blessed, whine-free silence.
All of this is preface to telling you that I have no idea WHY—when the cashier held up a little donation slip and asked me if I wanted to “Donate a dollar to save a baby”—the thing that fell out of my mouth was, “No thanks, I hate babies!”
I was joking. She was horrified.
I’m an ass. (Sorry, Jesus. Please accept this pie by way of apology.)