Please excuse the possible jerkiness of this post. I'm writing it between bouts of "Bedtime Tag", which is a delightful game played by the parents of nearly-two-year-olds-who-can-climb-out-of their-cribs and the nearly-two-year-olds themselves. The rules are simple: immediately after Mommy or Daddy (parents are allowed to take turns in the initial stages of play. Eventually, one parent will dominate play while the other enjoys an extended penalty [for the other parent] phase known as "Just resting my eyes, Honey!") place the toddler/opposing team into bed with the pacifier, blankie, and twenty-three books (all of which contain the toddler-soothing words "bed", "night", "moo" and "dark"), the toddler climbs out of the bed/parental goal zone, and scampers for the couch-toy box-kitchen-bathroom-living room-hallway/child goal zone. The toddler scores one point for every 60 seconds he remains out of bed. Parents score one point for every 60 seconds the toddler remains in bed.

Current score: 34-36 (Slight advantage currently to the parents because the child is almost imperceptively wearing down, although I suspect the ten-minute nap he took in the car three hours ago will soon emerge as the decisive factor in his ultimate victory.)

Kids: gotta love them. The alternative is a rapid descent into chocolate-assisted madness. (It would be much more rapid without the chocolate.)

For example:

I grew up being told that Sunday was a day of rest, of spiritual rejuvenation--a time for meditation and spiritual contemplation. I believed this until I had children. In reality, for moms at least, it is a slow torture conducted in full view of the ward--depending on where you sit. As exhibit "A" I offer the following discussion, quoted verbatim, "enjoyed" only this afternoon.

Mom: (singing sacrament hymn, considering the role of music in creating an atmosphere conducive to the Spirit) La, La, La

Child (the one with the mischievous grin): Hey, Mom. Mom. Hey. Do you have a wipe?

Mom: (absently, but compassionately) Sure, honey, let me just pull one out for you. La. La. La.

Reaches into extra-large-grande-size, Super Mommy Bag of All that Can Be Carried Without Large Animal Assistance.

Mom: Here you go, Sweetie. La. La. La. (Pause after chorus and consideration, having been attempting to focus on the hymn and its spiritual conducive-ness, and thus not having actually looked at the child yet. But sensing, somehow, that all is not quite as it should be. Perhaps.) Why do you need a wipe, anyway?

Child: Well . . .

Mommy: (in--and I'm extremely proud of this--incredibly restrained pianissimo shriek) AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAACCCCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKK!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Why is there blood all over your face and hands!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

And that, dear friends, is why the one with the mischievous grin took the sacrament this afternoon with a blood-soaked wet wipe stuck half-way up his nose. Dangling, I might add, over his mouth, thus requiring a rather odd head toss maneuver to drink the water. Also, eliciting smirks and fascinated/horrified stares from the priests, speakers, bishopric, and member of the Stake Presidency.

And you wonder why my temple recommend interviews take so long.