Criminal A and B.
Every Wednesday night my church has a great event called His Kids, where seven million children alight upon our little brick church and play, eat, run about, and learn about Jesus.
Ok, not seven million. But it’s a lot.
My children, when they were small and adorable, used to call Wednesday His Kids, “Biscuits!! It’sa da Biscuits night!” This would become even more compounded in meaning if the church meal there WAS actually biscuits and gravy, and my poor boys were swimming in biscuits all over da place.
This was so cute that I never actually corrected it, and to this day my children seem to link church going to flaky baked goods with honey.
There are worse things.
Last Wednesday night, His Kids was wrapping up, and I was attempting to get two boys in coats and boots and out the door before we hit the dreaded It’s Way Past Your Bedtime, and Your Mom Gets Grumpy deadline.
As I headed out the the car, I spotted them, running way ahead, down the sidewalk, to the car, past the car, and they Just. Kept. Going.
Let’s just say that right then is when I passed the Grumpy deadline. Inside, I had warned them, quite calmly, with a lovely and firm but soothing Mom voice: “Boys, head straight to the car. It’s Way Past Your Bedtime. If you stay up much longer you implode with exhaustion and hyperactivity with help from all those Starbursts you ate after diner. And I am feeling a grump coming on… it’s a small tickle in the back of my throat, so we best get home. Now.”
As I watched them run past the car with only the roadrunner glee that a four and a six year old can, I thought,
“Humph. They are going to learn a lesson.”
So, I got in my car and drove away.
Now, before you start trying to figure out how to call the cops on a mom blogger, just know this: I didn’t LEAVE-leave… I slipped around the back, silent and stealthy as an unmarked vehicle, and pulled in the side. I sat there for about thirty seconds, giving Red and Blonde just long enough to realize I was gone, and then tears and repentance and all that.
I peered around, to the front of the church, looking for two very sad and sorrowful boys who will never, ever disobey again, like ever.
Instead, I saw two small boys who were sprinting like mini Usain Bolts, and they had a three block head start on me. They were going home. By themselves. At eight o’clock at night.
And, then, I spotted it: They were gleeful.
I was told later that at least two members of my church reported back that “Red and Blonde are out running down Lincoln street! Danger! Danger! And, WHERE IS THEIR MOTHERRRRRR??”
I followed them. I kept praying, “Lord, sometime along the way, could some sort of freaking out occur? Could they get cold or get attacked by a stray cat or something.” I sighed. “Somehow, please, could this whole thing not turn out to be an awesome field trip of wonderfulness? Could we have some misery at some point? Please, Lord?”
Nope. They were absolutely thrilled. When I finally pulled in and revealed my cover – Blonde ran to me, cheeks all red and eyes twinkling,
“Mom! Hey, where were you? We started home acuz you left and we ARE ALMOST THERE and I watched at each stweet and lookits both ways! I was very careful!”
Red interjected with a small jazzstep and some “vroom vroom” noises, and then shouted, “DIS. IS. SO. AWESOME!”
I had prepared a long speech for them. I opened my mouth. I shut it. And then I growled, “Your father will talk to you about this when we get home.”
“Okay! But… canna we walk the rest of the way? Dis is fun!”
Well. Let that be a lesson to you.
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