I went to early church yesterday so my 16 year-old could help teach the little bitty kids during that service. The littles really seem to like her and a couple of them always insist on sitting next to her when they do crafts. It’s nice for all of them, I think.
I watched her stand in the front of the sanctuary, waving the kids to come forward, to leave their moms. Some ran, some clung, some spun in circles.
I remember very clearly being THAT MOM in church, pregnant with two unruly toddlers, hoping that the other people - the ones all around me who had showered and slept and didn’t have weird crusty baby stains on their best shirt - weren’t giving me The Righteous Sniff.
I lived for the moment when the nice people would take my children for Sunday School, so I could slump in the pew, desperately needing a break from being the chief wrangler in the 24/7 goat rodeo of raising small children.
Now my unruly toddler is the one wrangling the unruly toddlers. (IT’S THE CIIIIRCLE OF LIIIIIIFE.) And I’ve found that watching the little kids wiggle around in church, trying so hard to behave themselves, while their parents shake their heads and whisper admonishments, is one of my very favorite things.