Aunt Karin had put a few braids in Reid’s hair Saturday night and so I didn’t need to pull it, ermm, I mean, brush it Sunday morning before talking Reid into her dress for Sunday school. We sent Ken to represent our family at Shea’s semi-final hockey game and we went to church. Reid and I arrived early and had time to listen to the choir practicing a bit before Melissa arrived. Aunt Karin was at the hockey game, too, and I was her backup as Sunday school teacher. Because I am a lucky woman, Melissa had the lesson worked out and I needed only to help keep the class in order and cut some sheets for the activity that accompanied the story.
After church and the hockey game were over (Shea’s team lost), we met up with Ken at Grandma Joyce’s and then headed out again, this time for the extended family Christmas lunch. Reid was a bit shy around the kids of my cousins but played happily with her own cousins. Ken had been concerned that Reid would be unable to play in her floor-length Christmas dress. (She looked like a little princess, in my humble opinion.) Reid proved her dedication to having fun would not be thwarted by a few yards of lace and taffeta. The piano was a big hit with the kids, especially Damien, who has definitely made the jump from baby to toddler since the summer.
I’d say that the lunch passed uneventfully, other than a breach of etiquette when Reid reached into the dish to grab a handful of olives. She is lightening fast, my girl, and the food table is sitting right there in the middle of the room. It’s hard to understand, I guess, why it’s acceptable to serve yourself chips or carrot stick with your hands but not olives. At the end of the meal, Reid’s dress featured souvenirs of cherry tomatoes, olive “juice” and something undefined. When I pointed this out to Grandma Joyce, our seamstress, she assured me that I shouldn’t worry. I have to tell you all that I washed the flatware all by myself in the kitchen, though Chris did help me sort out the two rinse sinks. It’s good to write this sort of thing down, don’t you think?
A few people came back to Grandma Joyce’s after the dinner and somehow we were late getting Reid to bed. Ken finally took charge since I was moving so slowly. I’m sure he despaired over how late I’d let her stay up when he wasn’t there. My husband knows me a little too well.
It was a day for seeing the churches of my life. The one where we attended Sunday school is the one where I was baptised in and where Reid was baptised 30-odd years later and we ate our lunch in the church where I was confirmed and where Ken and I were married.