Today was one of those Sundays when Jack went ballistic just as the bishop began giving a talk on….something. I don’t know the topic, as everything became all shrieky and loud and we were all “abort!”
The things to know about Jack and his church tantrums:
1. They come on fast. One minute he is quietly eating smarties and pulling on Jeff’s arm hairs, the next he is bellowing and drowning out the speaker for all the other folks in the overflow section of the chapel/cultural hall.
2. They are unpredictable. Giggling on the way to church does not mean happily giggling through sacrament meeting. The kid can turn on a dime.
3. He usually cannot recover from them. This means he becomes so wildly upset that dropping him off in the nursery with the two-year-olds (his cognitive compatriots) is out of the question.
4. Jeff and I take turns spending lots of Sundays removing an angry, frustrated, mostly nonverbal child from church and taking him home to decompress.
Here’s the scoop on what it is like to leave church practically every week with your kid who can’t handle it: It sounds dreamy, at first. You know, leaving church early to put on sweatpants and eat lunch is the sort of thing you (meaning me) yearn for while you are at church. It is actually not dreamy when it happens with great regularity. Turns out, when you aren’t at church when you wish you were, it’s kind of disappointing. I’m starting to feel like Lloyd Newell and MoTab are my best chance at a reliable spiritually uplifting moment of a Sunday morning. And that’s just because I can watch them while wearing my jammies and making everybody pancakes.
It’s simply the Sunday truth.
I’m finished whining now.