Yesterday, as usual, we were running late for church. It’s my job to get the three kids out of the house in time for the 10:45 service, which is the SECOND service on any given Sunday. Rev leaves the house at 7:00 in order to get to the first service, which starts at 8:00. That’s 8:00 AM, which should be all the explanation I need to give as to why the second service is the only possible option for me. Anyway, the day started out with good intentions (as they always do), with my children completely forgetting about Mothers Day until they were on their second helping of pancakes (which I made).
Church started ten minutes late, so we were on time. My mind was occupied with the half-prepared Children’s Church lesson, and my spirit was not helped at all by the dry “period of praise” segment of the service. (Really, y’all, if we can’t find any songs written this century, can we at least sing ones that were composed during my lifetime? Please?) I skipped the Meet’n’Greet and dashed downstairs (well, clomped, since I was wearing my four-inch platform stilettos) to write the memory verse on the white board and set up for the arts and crafts project.
Let’s just say that I was a little frazzled.
After church, as I cleaned up the classroom, Doodle, who is nine and a half, moseyed in and said, “Can I go home with Dad?” I said, “Sure.” I watched him take off up the stairs, where the Pastor’s office is. A few minutes later, I crossed paths with Rev, who was coming downstairs, dressed in his civvies, pausing only long enough for us to snap at each other over whether I should have seasoned the chicken before I'd left for church and the fact that there wasn’t enough whole milk to make his dessert recipe for the dinner he was cooking for my mom and me. (This thirty-second conversation was the only time we’d really spoken all day -- at least while both of us were awake.)
By now, my feet hurt, I was a little irritated, and I had less than two hours to get my grocery shopping for the week done before my parents were due to arrive for dinner. I grabbed Scooby and headed out to my car.
By the time I got home, Rev was well into his dinner prep, and the kitchen looked demolished. Scooby dashed off to change out of her Sunday dress, while I made three trips to bring the grocery bags in from the car. Scooby reappeared, wearing shorts, and asked, “Can me and Doodle go outside?” I said yes, despite the fact that it was only about fifty degrees. She scampered downstairs, then came back up seconds later, looking confused. “Where’s Doodle?” she asked me. “I don’t know,” I snapped, “ask your dad.”
Said dad looked completely blank. “I thought he was with you.”
Every inappropriate Anglo-Saxon word I had ever learned crowded into my head at that moment, looking for a chance to escape. Each assuming the other had him, we had left the boy at church.
Now, we typically would check with each other before leaving after service. I’d say, Do you have the boys? or he'd tell me, I have the little guys. But yesterday, Rev was preoccupied with his dinner plans, and I was multitasking my grocery lists, my meal plan for the week, and my post mortem on a class that had not gone as well as I’d hoped.
I was thinking about everything except being a mother.
I stomped out of the house, clutching my cell phone, headed back to the church. On a Sunday morning, it takes about twenty American minutes to get there from home; on a Sunday afternoon, it takes forever. Every dawdling, cell-phone chatting, don’t notice the red light has turned green moron decided to pick that very moment to pull out in front of my car. I tried the blame for leaving Doodle behind out on everyone, eventually settling somewhere between “we were all careless,” and “sometimes stuff happens.”
When I got to the church (in nineteen minutes), Doodle was waiting patiently with a church member in the front lobby, munching on animal crackers. I put on my game face and said, “Hey, kiddo. What happened?”
He smiled, not troubled in the least, and replied, “Well, after I told you I wanted to go with Dad, I went up to the Sanctuary to find him, but he wasn’t there. I came back downstairs, but he wasn’t in the Fellowship Hall either. So I went to find you, but you’d left already.”
Oh.
If this were the movies, I would fall on my knees, wrap him in my arms, and tearfully promise never, ever to leave him again. But this is real life, where parents mess up and kids, understanding this, find the nearest adult and wait for you to come back, because, really, Mom and Dad aren’t going to leave you at church all week, and that’s what you’ve been teaching them to do since they were old enough to wander away from you in Walmart. So we thanked the nice lady for staying with him, and raced each other to the car. Once we were buckled in, I said, “I’m sorry I left without checking with Dad first.”
And my empathetic little boy proved that I wasn’t a complete failure as a mom when he responded, “That’s okay. Everyone can make a mistake.” Then he proved that he was savvy as well, when he added, “Sooo, maybe I should get my own cell phone.” His eyes met mine as I glanced over my shoulder, and he shrugged, as if to say, Well, it was worth a try, anyway.
Hmmm, I thought as I drove carefully home, mindful of the precious cargo in the back seat, Worst Mom? Maybe I’ll just settle for first runner up.
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