Just When I Expected the Worst

Sundays are kinda my day off.

Sure, I wake up the kids, approve church clothes, fix three heads of slippery soft hair, supervise the stocking of sacrament backpacks, buckle car seats, fix lunches, detail after-church activities, determine nap times, schedule home teachers, organize family dinner, prepare a large meal, and manage to include a nice dessert. But, still, it's the Man's job to supervise the kids during church, while I run around and attempt to keep tabs on the other 130 children (and no, that number is not an exaggeration).

This past Sunday, the Man was sick. I was on my own.

I asked the two older kids to please, please, please, for the love of all things chocolate-covered, please help me with Baby. They looked warily at their younger sibling but agreed. The fruit snacks only last so long. Baby gets wiggly pretty easily.

"What are we supposed to do?" Boo doesn't even bother to whisper.

"Just play together," I said, trying to catch the speaker's words.

And they did.

Zoobles hosted a tea party with Darth Maul. Littlest Pet Shops were Batman's pet dogs. The Human Torch became a trusty flashlight to retrieve lost crayons from under the seats.

As the first notes of the closing hymn started, the kids dutifully cleaned up, resorting toys back into their designated gender bias. I breathed a sigh of relief as little smiling faces hurried off to their classes.

Maybe I have this mothering-thing down after all!