We were sitting at an elegant lunch table.
We don’t usually do elegant anything. Much less lunch tables.
Complete with a fancy shmancy glass center piece and light linen table cloths, it was decked to the nines with something someone else had worked quite hard on.
I guess whoever decorated didn’t know our children would be ripping the place apart attending. But we were invited, nonetheless, to our missions sunday Luncheon. I wasn’t really sure why. Sure, Jamin’s all up in the youth ministry, and that’s really sweet, but we automatically cancel ourselves out, since we’re an instant, and completely given recipe for earth shattering disaster.
There were unsolicited, not-so-discreet giggles during the prayer.
There were huge “waves” made of aforementioned linen table cloths so that other people’s food were disturbed in the fabric tsunamis.
And more unsolicited, not-so-discreet giggles.
I really really wanted my offspring to behave themselves, but I guess it just wasn’t in the cards for that day, despite my sharp steely glances distributed from the juju gods of motherhood themselves, watching us from above. My tongue pressed sharply against my cheek; if only I could muster my mental powers to invoke silence at will.
There was a brief quiet in the crowd…just restrained enough for a pin to drop. And just long enough for most of the other, more well behaved (adult) guests to hear the following phrase uttered from my oldest’s mouth as he pushed his baked beans across his plate:
“These will give you diarrhea!” He beamed, proudly.
Glad you know your food groups.
And their important side effects, kid.