Mr. R died.

I've known Mr. R my whole life. He went to my church. When I received the email from my pastor with the news of Mr. R's death, I was sad. First, for obvious reasons, but second because his funeral fell on a day my kids were off from school.

I spent a day or two grappling with the decision - do I schlepp the kids to my mother-in-law's house or skip the funeral?

That was when I got a text from my mom. Mr. R from church died, she said. Like I A) don't know who Mr. R is and B) like I'm not on the church email list.

My parents and I have gone to the same church almost every Sunday. For forty years.

The trouble was my mom had agreed to take my sister's toddler and baby the same day as the funeral, before Mr. R died. Would I be able to substitute for a few hours while she and my dad went to the funeral?

Well. I was never going to that funeral. Some people drink their calories. I pay my respects by babysitting.

Since my kids were off from school, they accompanied me on my babysitting job. Which, by the way, I did for free, but when I was fifteen I charged $5 an hour to do.

Practice now, kid. You'll be a babysitter FOREVER.

My parents left, in separate cars because evidently that's what you do when you're going to the same funeral, at the same time, and returning to the same house at the same time.

As soon as they left, the baby got fussy. I rooted around for some breast milk or formula. In the fridge, I found an unlabeled baby bottle with powder on the bottom and water on top. You would think that clearly this is infant formula, but in my parents' house you never know. My grandmother once tried to make pie crust out of what she thought was flour but was actually plaster of Paris my dad had in a Ziploc bag.

Don't ask. I don't know why he had plaster of Paris in a Ziploc bag. And I don't want to know. But now that I think of it, I never again saw that boyfriend he caught me with at the hotel.

I gambled because it was the only baby bottle I could find and it's not my kid.

My dad arrived home and went to change into grandchild-friendly clothing. Just then, there was a knock at the door. Now, at my parents' house, everyone uses the side door. That's how you know if it be friend or foe. Foe always go to the front door. Well, foe and the pizza guy.

The knock was at the side door. Friend. I opened it and the two gentlemen asked for my dad. I invited them in (they declined) and called my dad. As I opened the door to let the men know my dad was on his way, my mom was heading toward the house. I offered again for the men to come in, but they just took off down the driveway.

Jehovah's Witnesses. They took one look at my day and decided even Jehovah couldn't help me.

Husband called me a suburban kid (I am) because I opened the door to two strangers.

Really. What would they possibly have done to make that day worse? Drop off another kid?