This picture sums up life with three boys: the injured party, the guilty party, the ‘whoop-tee-doo’ party
The African Children’s Choir performed a concert at our church last week. I wasn’t planning on going until someone said it was free. And I thought the Gort, who loves his music class at school, would be interested in seeing kids who are close to his age perform.
But the professor was at work. And the concert started at 7 which is (ideally) the time the blondies are supposed to be in bed. (Not asleep, per se, just confined.) I didn’t relish the thought of dragging the boys out of the house by myself at a late-ish hour. But I didn’t want them to miss the chance to see other kids sing and dance just because it was seven o’clock.
So I bathed their grimy selves after a long day of play. And dressed them in semi-cute clothes. And we left. And it all went very well. At first. The baby sat quietly in his carseat. The Gort sat patiently beside me, looking intently at the program. And the Hen sat on my lap, gnawing on the mini-pencils that he’d (earlier in the day) removed from the back pews.
‘Look at how well-behaved these kids are,’ I thought to myself. ‘They’re enjoying this so much! And to think I almost stayed home just so they could go to bed.’
And then the baby started squawking a teensy bit. And the Hen decided he wanted to go to the nursery instead of listen to children jumping around and singing words he didn’t understand. (Minor detail: there were no people in the nursery.) So we ‘borrowed’ some books from said nursery. And I figured we’d return to the concert once the singers got back from their break.
I perused the merchandise table while the Hen sat down in the middle of the floor with his books. I was trying to decide which of the five available CDs to get when, next thing I knew, my two oldest boys were at each other’s throats. Over a Bob the Builder soft-cover book.
I don’t make this stuff up.
And to think that they don’t even read the Bob the Builder book(s) we have at home. Or watch the Bob the Builder DVD I bought several years ago. Blame it on fatigue or brother-envy. I have no idea, but the last thing I needed was for the Johnson boy screams to be heard above the sweet voices of the children’s choir.
So we left.
As I reversed from my parking spot, I looked in the back of the van. The blondies were fast asleep.