M and I wake up and go about the business of getting ready for church. Daddy is still out plowing all the snow that was once again dumped on our frigid state. So we eat our cheerios, take a shower (Mommy), get dressed (both :), and go about the business if getting ourselves out of the house solo. Without Daddy's faithful assistance.
But we do o-kay. Until I am backing up out of the driveway and promptly get stuck in the foot and a half ridge that has been plowed into our drive. I try pulling forward and readjusting, then reverse again. Stuck. Again. Stuck, stuck, still very stuck. "What's happening, Mommy? We have to go to church!" M, who clings to the hour-a-week she gets to spend in her two year old class like a lifeline, is concerned when I say, "We're stuck, Maddy, we might not be able to go to church." I run to grab a shovel to see if I can dig out around the tires.
At this point, I'd like to give a
Anyways, pure sweetness, because during the time we were stuck, I told M we needed to pray and ask Jesus to help us get unstuck. She did so with all her little heart. And then when we finally were on our way, after a hearty "Thank You, Jesus!", she retold the event on the way to church by saying, "Mommy, I prayer-ed, and Jesus got us unstuck!" And if that doesn't make you smile, I don't know what will :).
So we get there a teensy bit late, we get M to her classroom, I get me to the service, I enjoy the service, I go and get M, and everything is beautiful. We come back to the atrium, where bagels and coffee are being served, and M informs me that "I want bread, Mommy" after seeing a child walk by with a bagel. At this moment I should mention that our family attends a large church, which has a huge main campus about thirty minutes away from our house, and many satellite locations. One just opened in a local high school very close to our house. The atrium in this particular building has very high ceilings. You'll need to remember that in a minute.
So we get a bagel and take a seat at a table in this central gathering place. It's one of those mother-daughter moments, just M and I, enjoying a bagel and the unrushed peace of our morning schedule. Many children are running around, and M notices that most of them have balloons. I conclude that the older kids must have gotten balloons in Sunday school or something. M mentions that she wants a balloon, but, all in all, handles the situation pretty well, and continues eating her bagel. And then a sweet little angel child comes over and hands my girl a huge blue balloon. My heart melts, M is thrilled, and we happily continue munching, this time with M keeping one hand on the balloon.
Then it happens.
Out of nowhere, and for no apparent reason, the balloon pops. And when I say "pops" what I mean is "makes a sound like a bomb going off, or at the very least, gunfire." I promise you I am not exaggerating. It must have had something to do with the very high ceilings, and perhaps the current humidity and phase of the moon, but the sound is enough to silence each and every conversation taking place in the entire area. All eyes are on us.
So, you know, M is crying, and you know I am flushed, but, you know, it was just a balloon that popped. Not a big deal, right? Another sweet angel child (we apparently have a lot of them at church) tells me she will run downstairs and get M another balloon. Meanwhile, the halo-clad kid from earlier comes back and gives M her OTHER balloon. How incredibly sweet. Conversation starts to return to normal and church staff return their cell phones to their pockets, relieved there was, in fact, no actual bomb.
And then...do you think you know what happens next? Yep, THE SECOND BALLOON POPS! Friends, these children had been playing with these balloons for a good 15 minutes, but the minute M and I touch them, they explode. Again, same noise, same halt in conversation, same tears.
Oh wait, did I say "same tears"? That's not entirely true. Because (and here's the TRULY embarrassing part), upon the bursting of the second balloon...I also begin to cry.
That's right. Publicly. With all eyes on me. Right along with my distraught toddler. For no apparent reason other than stinkin' pregnancy raging hormones! I mean, SERIOUSLY? What mom cries over two burst balloons?? If I try to explain it rationally (which, believe me, I can't!), I was sad over seeing M so sad, so scared, so shaken up. Her little lip trembling, her body shaking, saying through her sobs, "That balloon scared my ears!" over and over...well, it broke my heart.
A sweet mom comes over and gives M another balloon, this time complete with a plastic bag to keep it in, because you know that child is not touching another balloon directly for a loooonnngg, loooonnng time. I sniffle through a conversation with Sweet Mom, trying, unsuccessfully, to compose myself when she asks me my name. My hand's a little damp when she shakes it. I mumble about being pregnant and hormonal, and then M and I gather our composure, and vacate the premises.
OH MY STINKIN' GOSH.
So, I need your opinion...do we look for a new church? Or do I hold my head high next Sunday and pretend it is perfectly normal to break down into a weepy puddle when a green balloon pops? Let me know!
Lovin' the madness,