Hello Jesus

I am a homebody. My idea of a perfect Sunday afternoon is vegging out in front of the TV with absolutely nothing to do. It is my most guilty pleasure, that maybe I should have kept to myself.  Now that my siblings know that “I am not doing anything anyway”, I’ve become the Sunday designated baby-sitter.


Well ok, it’s not that big a deal. And I love my nephews and nieces to bits. Really I do. But handling four or five at a time can get to anyone. And forget TV. Forget the lazy afternoon. You are responsible!


But I’ve developed a secret method to control these bundles of virtually uncontrollable id. They are all going to Catholic schools, and I know what that means, having gone myself when I was that age.


So when the playing gets too rough. When screaming “stop!” at the top of my lungs makes me feel as effective as a referee in a professional wrestling match, this is what I do. With my cellphone, I secretly make our landline phone ring. 


“Who’s calling? Is that my dad?” 


I ignore the query and proceed to talk to the person on the other line. “Hello Jesus,” then I give good old JC a blow by blow account of what boy did to what girl and so on and so forth. 


I know. I know. I am bad. My place in hell is secured.