June 1, 2009
If you ever happen to be passing through Maine in search of a deep, spiritual experience, please, please, please do your best to satiate the urge by hugging a tree or something--not by sitting behind us in church. I don't know what it is, but my little family possesses the uncanny ability to send the Holy Spirit running from a room faster than the devil himself on propane powered roller blades.
Take this past Sunday for example, when James slyly inserted a yellow highlighter and a bic pen into each of his nostrils, stood on the pew, faced backwards, and displayed his accessories for approximately 70% of the congregation to take in.
Most of them seemed to enjoy the show. Some of them clearly did not.
This, I should mention, all happened after James piped up during the preliminary meditative part asking, "Mom? Can I pee on dat pwant over dere?"
"No," I whispered. "If you need to pee, I'll take you to use the potty."
"Well," he half-shouted, "is it okay if I poop on dat pwant instead?"
To which I replied, "James, do you know what a spanking is?"
To which he replied, "Don't spank me, Mommy. Spank my monkey instead," as he held up the miniature plush monkey from his Noah's Ark playset.
Really now, please don't sit behind us. For the benefit of everyone, we seem to need our space.