Toddler Football in the Chapel

The game begins when you enter the chapel. You anxiously scope out the congregation looking for "the right spot" for your toddler to sit for the next 70 minutes. No front row, because you don't want to be the main act in the center ring. You can't sit too close to the door because it may become an escape route. You can't sit in the middle of those extra long benches because then you're trapped on both sides and when tantrum comes (not if, but when it comes), it's more of a circus just to get them out than the tantrum could ever be. You can't sit too close to that kid with the fishy crackers either, because you forgot to bring yours and your child doesn't know the meaning of the word "mooch." You also can't sit by the bishop's family either, well, for obvious reasons. So, you decide on a short bench planting a parent on each end of the bench. This is where mom and dad turn into goal posts and the real game begins. The toddler goes from side seeing which side is the weakest link. When mom or dad forgetfully starts listening to a talk, the toddler sees his opening and takes it. They squeeze through the hole in the defensive line and suddenly they're free! Maybe it's because mom's defense was anticipating another formation, or perhaps dad underestimated the speed of his runningback toddler and lunged only managing to connect with his sippy cup. Either way, it's a fabulous football game that the congregation gets a real kick out of. Then you suddenly find yourself wondering what year it will be when you actually get to listen to a talk, pull our your scriptures, or get emotional during a testimony because you actually heard it. Our parents did it with us, they tell us. Which is somehow supposed to make us feel better, but usually ends up making us feel worse by thinking about what kind of terror we muat have been during Sacrament meeting. And so, the cycle continues and you can only hope and pray that if there's any justice in this world your child gets a son/daughter just like him.