I was up plenty early this morning–I had lesson materials for the 22 girls in my class to finish organizing, and two of my own teenagers speaking today and I knew that the printer was jammed. What I didn't know, was that the seven year old was vomiting and the third teenager woke up with his eyes swollen shut (yes, you can get pink-eye even if you shun all contagious critters who are shorter than your knee caps) and, and, and. you know how it goes.
We barely squeaked in as the meeting started.
Found myself sitting at the back of the chapel. Next to a 16 month old baby on his mother's lap. I've seen him before–from across the chapel–but never before had the pleasure of soaking up his drool with my skirt, if you know what I mean.
So I'm sitting there with my eyes closed, listening to the prayer–okay, I was kind of also distracted by the fact that my eight year old beside me looked like a freak (note to self: making him shower the night before is actually counterproductive–nothing can cure went-to-sleep-with-wet-hair-bedhead on this kid short of another shower). Not to mention that after drying my hair and glancing at the clock in horror I hadn't taken one last look in the mirror myself and so I wasn't honestly sure that I looked like any less of a freak.
But I'm sitting there, trying to focus on the prayer, and I feel the drooling toddler next to me take a handful of my hair. I brace myself for the inevitable yank, but it doesn't come. Soon, I realize that he's running his hands through my hair, and then he starts whispering. "Pretty!" he says. "Pretty! PRETTY!!"
Louder and louder, until he gets his mother's attention and she confirms for him, that yes, it's pretty, now leave it alone.
I know, I know, he's only 16 months old and he thinks everything with four legs is a puppy, but I'll take what I can get.
And my daughter's talk? Awesome. Without any input from me.
There's not much better than seeing your children capable and confident and articulate. Wow. Where did that come from?