A Totally True and Completely Accurate Story

Sorry for the last post, where I was a grumpy gus. I’m over myself now.

So, to spare you from my maudlin-ness (I’m pretty certain this is NOT a word, but that’s okay. I’m alright making up words), I will now tell you a totally true and completely accurate story about my children.

Actually people, what’s really sad is that I am not making any of this up.

Back several years ago, we took our kids to get baptized at the Lutheran Church we were attending. At the time, Monkey was having these monster fits–she’d scream her head off like a crazy person for hours. Hours. And no, that’s not poetic license. I start shaking and rocking just remembering it.

So anyway, there we are, sitting in church, waiting to go up to the baptismal font. it was summer time, and the sky was dark with a rather freakish summer storm, and it was so stinking hot outside that you could see the heat rising off the asphalt just outside the door. Monkey was throwing a fit about something; I don’t even remember what. There she was, in her white, eyelet lace dress, throwing herself on the floor and shrieking like a banshee. No, really. I was surprised that the windows didn’t shatter.

Suddenly, there was a loud crack. The power went off. The air conditioner died. Monkey abruptly stopped wailing to look around. And no, she wasn’t upset. A couple of old ladies screamed, by my two-year-old? She was totally fine with it, like, “Oh, what was that?”

I turned to M. “Did the church just get struck by lightning?”

M said, “I don’t know, but she stopped screaming,” as if that was the important thing. Because I was thinking, Of course. Why wouldn’t lightning strike the church now? Of course.

Chewey took that moment to begin wailing in my arms. M was the one who had been wrangling the slippery eel that was Monkey. Seriously, who knew a little kid could be so slippery? When Monk was little, it was like wrangling an octopus, all arms and legs and no bones, and I swear she had more than four limbs. In fact, I’m pretty certain she looked a bit like this:



M and I exchanged a look. You know, the parent look. The one that says, “I’m so sorry we’re in this together, but hey, we’re in this together!”

Then he said, “My mother always said my child would be the antichrist. Hi five.”

We high-fived, because if you can’t laugh at it, it will break you. (And in this case, “it” can mean anything. Mother-in-law issues? Yup, “it” can be that. Trouble with a boss? Yes, “it” can be that, too. Unexpected STDs… Uh, no. Sorry, you’re on your own there)

“If this is a sign, one of them will spontaneously combust.” I looked down at my shirt, and my flailing son, who was so upset that he dribbled snot all down the front of my blouse. “I like this shirt. Putting out flames will ruin it, if Chewey doesn’t do it first.”

M laughed, like he always does when I think I’m being funny.

I am happy to report that the rest of the baptism went without incident. Sure, Monkey asked for cake through the whole thing (hey, she was two, and we bribe when we have to), but that worked out. She got her cake without throwing another fit. And Chewey finally stopped screaming when the lady holding him accidentally clocked him on the head walking through a door, so there is that.

So the next time you look at your little bundles of joy, just remember, it could be worse. Lightning could strike the church.


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