God Kicked Me Out of Church Last Sunday....

So, the whole mess started last Sunday when the nursery pager buzzed me during the very beginning of the church service....

Wait. Maybe not.

You see, I have to admit I was in a rotten mood, and I wasn't paying all that much attention to the service. We hadn't even gotten to the sermon yet, and I was taking mental notes for my blog, I forgot to stand up when I was supposed to, and I freely admit to mouthing the words to the hymn because I couldn't figure out the tune. I find reading music I've never seen, singing it, and remembering which verse we are on and getting the right words to be a bit of a stretch of my musical talents. Standing next to Darling Husband, who sings quite enthusiastically with complete disregard for key and pitch makes it all the harder. I wish I had his devil-may-care (or I guess that's "heaven may care, right?") attitude and just "sang out." Unless I have a good pitch-person behind me feeding me the notes, though, I am meek and mild on songs I do not know. You see, my mother told me if I couldn't sing the right note, I shouldn't sing at all. In our house, this was the corollary to "If you can't say anything nice...."

So, with all that being said, the story probably starts with, "I wasn't really paying attention in church last Sunday." I was grumpy, we had a lot of unpleasant chores to do, and my cleaning lady just quit so I am concerned that if I don't buy a toilet brush we may all die of some vile disease of the commode. (Ok, that's not true either. I do clean bathrooms, but I do admit to leaving it up to the cleaning lady whenever possible. Wouldn't you?)

I was also thinking, as I sat there, that with the way this past week played out (as I described yesterday in detail), Entropy and Chaos might be massing for the biggest assult on my home we have seen since I brought a NICU baby home to a house without a kitchen.

Anyway, when it came down to it, God was not amused with me. Or, just maybe, he was quite amused by me and thought that was not really appropriate. Either way, the pager from the nursery went off less than 10 minutes into the service -- the first time it had gone off in almost a year. Darling Husband and I look at each other with a bit of alarm. This could not be good news. Toddler LOVES the church nursery. In fact, he runs inside, starts to play, then turns around, comes back to us, and pushes us out the door saying, "Bye, mommy, daddy. Bye." I guess we cramp his playing style or something. Then again, last weekend he came out of the nursery wearing a valentine from another girl-toddler, so maybe there is more to it then that. Whatever the reason, he wants to be there and loves it ... so what could be the page?

Like any reasonable parent, I grabbed the pager and jogged down the stairs. (If you haven't done this, it is an interesting experience, jogging down stairs.) All the while, I'm thinking about the time he was outside last summer with the nursery crowd and ran in front of a moving child on a swing and ended up flat on his back. What would the trouble be today? Bloody nose? Puking? Pulling a shelf of toys down on himself?

I walked in to the nursery, and he looked fine. The caregiver came over and said something like this: "Well, Toddler said he had to go poop, so I took him to the potty. He didn't have to go poop, but apparently he did have to pee. We had a bit of an accident because ... well ... his pee pee was pointing the wrong ... well, you know. And, you see, we didn't find any change of clothes in the bag. We thought he could just wait, but he keeps saying, he's 'all wet'. And ... well ... he is. We were hoping you had some pants in the car or something."

I just stood there, not sure whether to laugh or hang my head in shame because I failed to pack an extra pair of pants. What kind of mother am I not to pack extra clothes? Well, to be fair, I'm the mother of a child in diapers who never asks to go to the potty when he is outside the house, and never, ever, asks to poop in the potty. I am also the mother of a child that stopped throwing up a year ago, and I was enjoying the fact that I didn't really need to carry two changes of clothes everywhere I went.

I forgot for awhile that I am also the mother of a 2.5 year old BOY CHILD who loves dirt, forgets to point the right way in the potty, and remains totally unpredictable. I have now put a pair of sweatpants in the trunk of the car.

Of course, I had to check out the pants for myself, because everyone was standing there, staring at me, like perhaps I had some magic pants-drying wand or something.

Nope. No wand. No clue what I am supposed to do.

Nonetheless, I feel the pants. Um -- wet? These things were soaked from top to bottom, front to back, all across the left leg. This was no minor pants-wetting. This was a fire hose on high.

Of course, I was thinking, "HEY COOL! He was obviously holding it for the potty!" What I said was, "Right. This is not good. I'll get DH and we'll just take him home. Thanks so much, and we'll be right back."

So, less than fifteen mintues into the church service, and Darling Husband and I are gathering our coats and trying to "sneak" from the second row pew out the side door. No luck because the deacon is standing right there. No sneaking allowed. All exits must be bold and forthright. Yet, what do I say to this man with the concerned look? "Um, Toddler is having a really bad day, so we need to leave. No, no ... nothing is wrong ... exactly ... we'll just see you next week."

Right. That was ... inconspicuous.

In the end, I can honestly say it took us longer to find a place to park last Sunday than we were actually in the building. I guess the fact that the parking garage wasn't open and there were no un-snowed spots wasn't enough of a clue to us that God wanted the day off from our unfocused and irreverant attendance (or at least mine).

I knew I should have slept in and sent the boys off on their own.