I expected this morning to be met with tears and tantrums. Refusals to bathe, be diapered, dressed, and shod. Perhaps even a stand against breakfast. The child had two days in which his parents ignored his bedtime (once for the chance to enjoy “The Muppet Movie” at a pier on the Hudson, the other because of the %#$@ Staten Island Ferry and other joys of MTA dependency) and had suffered a major breakdown last night approximately 10 minutes before we got home from our trip to the suburban borough. (We ended up running down the road from a train station almost a mile away with Simon acting as our warning siren.)
So I was less than optimistic about our chances of getting to church on time, or of me being a very happy person by the time we finally got there. And then the child set out to prove me wrong. Never in my life did I think that he would go get a new diaper after only being asked once, or that he would request to be clothed instead of reading books, or that it would take him less than 5 minutes to find a pair of socks that were worthy of his feet, or that he would demand that I stop doing dishes and take him to church. We were out the door in record time, caught an early train, and arrived at church 30 minutes before it started. Simon sat nicely while we read books and listened to prelude music, and, as has become his habit, tried to be the first kid to the Nursery once Sacrament meeting was over. He kindly escorted his parents out the door and was full of hugs and happiness when they picked him up two hours later.
I have an idea. Let’s do that everyday.