Some Sundays, I just wish I could use a camera in church.
To preserve those priceless little memories of my children.
To scrapbook them and save them for the time when I can use them.
Use them to show my children exactly why I have gray hairs.
Use them to explain why their own children are doing exactly the same thing.
And why then I will be laughing and not feel guilty about it.
Here's a little snapshot of our Mother's Day sacrament meeting.
Music quietly starts and sweet little children start to walk calmly and reverently to the pulpit to sing to their mothers. Mr. One hides under the bench because he doesn't want to sing. Mr. Two looks at me with confusion, like, "What is going on here?" and "Do I have to go up there if Mr. One doesn't?" I forcefully whisper in Mr. One's ear that he needs to go up there and take his brother with him. Now. Reluctantly, he decides to cooperate. As long as he can drag his brother up to the front with him.
While the rest of the children sing lovingly to their mothers (or at least just stand still and smile), Mr. One and Mr. Two are up there, front and center, not singing, but digging for buried treasure (aka, picking their noses with zeal). As I finally get their attention and give them the "you better cut that out" stare-down, then fiercely smile and mouth, "Sing. Please," Mr. One decides to stop picking his nose and glare at me for the rest of the special musical presentation. I watched on with tears in my eyes, partly from humiliation, partly from the pure humor of the situation, and partly because, even in the midst of it, I love those crazy little boys. Oh the complex joys of raising children.
Marjorie Pay Hinkley put it perfectly: "The only way to get through life is to laugh your way through it. You either have to laugh or cry. I prefer to laugh. Crying gives me a headache."
Happy Mother's Day, indeed.