Sometimes, even though I have nothing very nifty to say, I just have to write. Yup. That's it. Just gotta do it. Tonight, right now, is one of those times. I itch to write. Sure enough! It's true. It's as clear as the tiny pointer finger smudge on my right focal lens. I'm in the grip of a higher power. Though my muse may abandon me, the juice is flowing. Flowing. Flowing. Streaming. Trickling. Petering out. And . . . without saying so much as one brilliant thing, I've managed to come up with absolutely nothing to write about. Hm. Houston, we have a problem. Or, as Anders would say, "Houston, I have a probrom."
So, I guess I'll tell you about Church on Sunday. Lately, Sacrament Meeting is a recurring source of amusement for the Bagel family. This last Sunday was no exception. In fact, if you were sitting behind or in front of us, you likely heard a few things you never thought you'd hear at Church. Then again, perhaps I was able to clasp my hand over Anders' mouth before the worst was revealed. Nevertheless, our near-shame experience left Dan huddled in the corner of our pew, doubled over with silent laughter while I blushed a shade of red you "never did saw, darlin'!"
You see, Anders has this somewhat inconvenient body quirk that tends to plague him at the worst possible moments in his blessed little life. In short, he often experiences discomfort originating in his groin area. If you have little boys, you know what I'm talking about. Only, with Soren the occurrence was never as frequent as it is with Anders. Anyway, because we are very unabashed in our discussion of body parts, Anders is no stranger to the technical term alluding to his manhood. So on Sunday, at exactly the wrong and perfectly mortifying moment just as the deacons are passing the sacrament, Anders begins to squirm and, HORROR, tug at the crotch of his khakis. Quick as Obama can spend $3.27 trillion, my hand began to move. And Anders began to speak. "Mommy, you're hurting my (Mommy's hand over the mouth)." "Mommy! You're hurting my (mumble, mumble, mumble)." Squirm, squirm, "MOMMY! You're hurting my (mumble, mumble, mumble - my hand is getting slobbery)." And so it went on, for too long, with Dan shaking the bench in mirth and me ducking my head in the agony of embarrassment and humor even while wrestling the verbose little beast into silent submission.
For the record, I am innocent. While Anders kept trying to blame me for his "discomfort," in truth, I had been minding my own business, holding my son on my lap, trying to listen to the talk being shared. Nay, I will not be thy scapegoat, good buddy!
The second outburst actually happened before the first if I'm being chronologically honest here. As the deacons passed the bread, I took the opportunity to have a whispered conversation with Anders about the sacred nature of the sacrament. I quietly reminded him that the bread signifies Jesus' body. He stared at me. And then I told him that the water reminds us of Jesus' blood. He perked up. And in a perfectly petulant and conveniently amplified voice, he declared, "JESUS' BLOOD??!!" I giggled. I'm sorry. I couldn't help it. And I watched my friend's back (sitting in front of us), suddenly hunch forward, shoulders shaking. And all this while Anders looks around with an impish little grin on his face. He knows when he's been funny, the stinker.
Ah, never a dull moment at Church with the Bagels. And now, having satisfied the demands of my writing lust, I feel free to say good night. I recognize that I've still failed to leave you with anything brilliant, but at least I hope you let a chuckle or two slip before you reached the bottom of this poor attempt at blogging I've posted today.