Palm Sunday

It's Palm Sunday. Not Palm Sunday, not even Palm Sunday, but Palm Sunday. It's been an interesting one.

My son and I volunteered to help out with "coffee hour" in our church. Connie, who runs the coffee hour program and is an old hand at the business of setting out great cheese platters, vegetables, dips, cookies and everything else you'd love to eat at 11:30 when church is over. She did most of it. My kid and I set up the kids table with Dunkin Donuts munchkin donut holes and also big donuts -- glazed and chocolate glazed. We sure didn't have trouble getting rid of them.

For some unknown reason, and this continues to happen, my kid has decided wearing socks is not cool. He does anything to avoid wearing socks. So when we pulled up to church this morning, he gets out on the side where there are bushes and there are thorns and he's walking where his ankles are getting scratched by thorns and it hurts and he's making odd noises, torn between how it hurts and how he doesn't want me to know he was busy sneaking out of the house this morning with no socks on. Sometimes raising a boy is like raising an alien invader, I have absolutely NO CLUE why he does some of the weird things he does. And when I say "no socks" let me remind you it's cold and rainy here and may snow later. It's not Palm Beach, or Palm Springs, it's just Palm Sunday.