Sacrament Meeting was drifting to a close. I, too, was
drifting in a pleasant haze of self-congratulations. All the
children looked their best, we'd managed to make it through
Sunday morning without a major fight, and I had endured yet
another week without disowning one or more children.
The piercing shrill of the fire alarm, ranging somewhere
between the trumpet of a wounded moose and the caw of an outraged
crow, startled me from my reverie.
At the Bishop's request, the congregation began to file out.
I looked for the children, mentally counting heads. Two were
missing.
In the hallway, sixteen-year-old Rob gave me a sheepish
look. "It was Ann."
Almost three-year-old Ann smiled her most winning smile.
How could a child with a face like an angel disrupt an entire
ward with only the flick of her wrist?
I quickly ushered her out, but not before I encountered the
Bishop, who fixed me with a stern gaze.
"Was that your child?" he asked.
I managed a shaky nod before making my escape, with Ann, to
the one place where we could be assured of privacy: a stall in
the women's restroom.
I should have been surprised, but I wasn't. After all,
didn't I already know the truth about Sundays? I enjoy Sundays.
Or, at least, I would if they were not fraught with opportunities
for humiliation, disaster, and despair.
Take Hyrum, for example--our sweet, eager to please, loving
eight-year-old, whose pants routinely hang at half mast. I
accept that, just as I accept other laws of nature: it will rain
if I wash the car, a phone call on Sunday morning signals that
someone wants something, and having three boys in the family
means the toilet lid will always be up.
But my acceptance was tempered with the knowledge that Hyrum
would be wearing underwear. One Sunday, Hyrum neglected that
particular article of clothing. As his pants dipped lower, my
eyebrows raised higher and my heart raced faster. The phrase
"crack problem in the United States" took on an entirely new
meaning as his pants slipped below the modesty level.
If it were only my children who caused me stress, perhaps I
could handle it. What of my own calamities, though? Thirty
minutes before Church was due to start, I discovered my one pair
of pantyhose needed washing. My sweet husband, who is
knowledgeable about everything but women's fashions, suggested I
go without stockings. I reminded him that someone who has legs
which resemble nothing so much as two white sticks with knobs
does not bare them at church. Hurriedly, I washed the hose in
the sink and dried them with my blow dryer. I suffered through
three hours of cold, clammy nylon plastered to my legs.
Was it a coincidence that I developed a runny nose and
sniffles the next day? I'm afraid not. It only proves what I
already knew: Sundays can be hazardous to your health.
