I’ve been in this mood where I wish I had a big beach ball I could carry around and bounce off people’s faces when they make me crazy.
And today I ate my feelings in lemon cake. The cake is dead. Long live the cake.
Also, church is where my littlest people act like live wires.
I dreamed today of leaning over and resting my head on Dutch’s arm during sacrament meeting, and falling into a sound, restorative sleep. It was that kind of day. I wanted children to stop yapping about coloring books so I could hear the speakers. I wanted Truman to stop elbowing me in the stomach. I wanted to weep softly during “Come, Come Ye Saints” with nobody pecking at me for anything.
I handed a sobbing three-year-old off to the Primary president, who now just holds out her arms for my wailing wreck of a Sunbeam every single week.
I taught a Sunday school lesson to a bunch of twelve-year-old cool cats like I do every-other-Sunday. Then I taught a lesson to a bunch of twelve-year-old boys on how to teach a lesson.
Here’s the thing about twelve-year-old boys: they are so diaphanously easy to read. Want to know what they are thinking? No you don’t, but they’ve already told you 87 times, so there’s no need to wonder. I did not feel the need for a beach ball in either class today, but there were a couple moments when I would’ve welcomed an air horn.
Anyhoo, I dreamed of Cokes on the 45-second drive home from church. I got home and poured a can over ice, which Jack instantly drank when I wasn’t looking. He did this with three more Cokes this afternoon. Again, beach ball.
Jack did the angry tongue face something like 18 times today. He had to reboot in time out probably 6 times. The lunging and the squeezing and the grabbing happened off and on all day.
Charlie had separate meltdowns about church pants, church shirts, Primary, shorts, and going potty.
Sundays are my death march.