A blue check marks the spot on the spreadsheet that promises me an extra hour and a half of freedom. If I pack a lunch and sign the box, my little girl can play for 90 more glorious minutes. So her name is written on every dotted line I can find those two preschool days a week.

I begin to walk away when I notice the Minnie Mouse bag still in my hands. “Whoops,” I mutter as I toss it into the laundry basket of liberty.

“That wouldn’t be good,” she says with a peppy step to the door. Our kids, especially our older girls, are like peas and carrots. They met years ago in ballet and since have spent many an elementary recess chasing boys and deciding whether my daughter’s “tom-boy” side can knit together with her daughter’s “fancy-girl” tendencies. (It’s the new lingo, “fancy.” Not preppy.) And this year, yes, they weave.

“Oh. No it wouldn’t.” I notice a thumbprint of black above her eyes. How embarrassing, I think. A true friend would tell. “Here, look at me.” I am waving at my own head. “You have something…” I don’t know how to finish. Black. There’s a huge, humiliating smear that looks like you’ve been working under your car. I don’t say this.

But she’s already forming her reply. She’s prepared. And she is so gracious to me. “It’s ashes,” she says while her ponytail flips in the same perfection of her toned legs.  

“Ohh! Yes.” How embarrassing indeed. Of course it’s ashes. Right. I need some as well. I’ll be using them to scrawl F-O-O-L on my face. “So what’s the process of, you know…” More waving like I’m shooing a bee.

“Well we went to church this morning.”
“OK, like a formal service?”
“Yeah, and they burn palms from last year.”
“Uh-huh.”
“It’s to get ready for the Lent season.”
“Lent. I want to do that.” What am I, a kindergartener?

I’ve been reading some excellent blogs about this ritual. It was never part of our Easter celebration where I grew up but the practice was introduced to me several years ago. When I cut out sweets. And scarcely survived to tell the story.

What to choose? How does one pick out of all the overwhelming selfishness that has taken root? To boot, what’s the point when I have more than enough viable reasons (ahem, excuses) to avoid all this discomfort?

Caffeine: Come on, no one would hold me hostage for needing help in the morning when train tracks are flying at heads and whining is the only means of communication.
Sweets: I’m closing my eyes and holding myself up because my knees have gone weak at the thought.
Facebook: I’m trying to write.
Cell phone/ texting: No. Veto.

I’m wanting to be noble about this decision. Authentic. What about me do I want to change?

Too angry: Is that even bad? I’m told it’s a secondary emotion that is like a little clue to a bigger riddle. So not anger. But how about the yelling at the kids when I reach boiling frustration at their indifference of the looming schedule? That moment when I rationalize it’s acceptable for me to treat them with disrespect because frankly, they are being disrespectful.
Hm, now we’re getting somewhere. Crap.

I blame my husband: He deserves it, you know. Unbeknownst to many of you, he is far from flawless. (I understand if you need a smidge of a second to process this.)
The unfortunate reality is I don’t really meet the bar either. (This we all know. No processing needed.) We are two wounded people committed to making a life together. It’s cause for a royal mess sometimes, but what would the next 46 days offer to our relationship if I saw him as my equal, and not my enemy? This is not how I saw this going.

Finding value in social media: Now it’s downright rough. Like, I can’t believe I’m admitting it here. Oh well, no one ever related to polished excellence. All in.
*sigh* I do. Guilty. Sometimes the afternoon is so quiet, my phone doesn’t beep and I catastrophize that everyone I know is secretly planning a party where I will not be invited. So I scroll Facebook. And then I’m suffocating in the hopeless aftermath of a panic attack I didn’t see coming. So I check Twitter. I grieve zero “likes” and offer something false the ability to tell me my worth.

Wayne Meisel writes:

“My stomach, my time and my attention have to be filled with things other than what I’m used to, other than habits that superficially satisfy.”

Lent may offer me the opportunity to welcome truer, richer parts of life. At the risk of sounding like a preschooler, I want that.

“Could I have gone through this self-discovery while eating chocolate and holding a beer? Sure, I suppose, but I never did. There is something about entering a spiritual practice that has power, even when it is undertaken at a very elementary level.” -Wayne Meisel, Huffington Post

It’s decided then. I’m doing it. But be advised, if you order a doughnut don’t come near me. I will fight you off, so I can fight for something more.