A Tale of Truth and Mortification

I first and foremost very much wish to wish my man a happy anniversary. At this moment, 7 years ago, I was straightening my hair for my wedding. (I kind of didn't do the fancy "get-your-hair-done" thing, and at this moment 7 years ago, I was wishing I had hired someone to do my stinking hair! FLYAWAYS everywhere.) Anyway, Happy Anniversary, to Derek. I love you!

And while I would love to leave it at that, I must tell you a story of truth and mortification.

Church was going fine, I guess. The normal, "SHHHHH" to my children, and all that. When, about 10 minutes before the end, Oliver decided to screech and scream. For no apparent reason. It was very bizarre. So, I scooped him out and booked it to the lobby. I plunked he and myself down on the couch and thought, "What a weirdo."

Then I saw that Spencer had followed us out. Grrr.

"Spencer come here right now!" I hissed. He obliged and sat himself on the other side of me on the couch.

Oliver stood up and attempted to launch himself off the couch. So I turned to try and catch him. Catch him I did. Then, out of the corner of my  eye I saw Spencer.

I saw him reach up above the couch.

I saw his little pudgy hand close around a lever.

I saw him pull it down half way.

I nearly yelled (but not quite because we were in church!) "Spencer! NO!"

He yanked his hand back, and we both stared at the lever.

One second passed. Nothing happened.

Two seconds passed. Nothing happened.

I relaxed. Apparently, half a lever pull did not accomplish what a FULL lever pull would have accomplished.

Three seconds passed.

And then.

The fire alarm began to wail, "WONK! WONK! WONK!" and all the lights started to flash.

And the speaker in the chapel quit speaking.

And I wanted to 1. Die and 2. Take my two-almost-three-year-old with me.

I heard the Bishop get up and say into the microphone, "Brothers and sisters please exit the building." A shuffle of confused, un-alarmed feet.

And I just stood there. Glaring menacingly at Spencer. I picked him up and flopped him down on an end table, a bit out of the way.

The entire congregation filed past. And I smiled serenely at them as they walked.

I mean, what else could I do?

Then Derek appeared. "I knew it," was all he said.

"Please go find the Bishop and tell him it was a false alarm," I requested.

Derek disappeared. Before long though, the Bishop appeared and made the horrid noises stop.

"It was Spencer," I confessed, in a very matter-of-fact-tone. "There is no fire."

"Oh. Good." He replied. Then for some reason, the wonking started all over again, but I am certain none of my children were to blame this time.

They finally got it all under control and let everyone back in the building. And they all filed past us again.

I was told later that it was not entirely my neglectful parenting that was to blame. There IS supposed to be a piece of glass covering the fire alarm to prevent such misuse/ Where the glass had gone no one knows, but they have requested a new one.

Good to know, right?

And that is my tale of truth and mortification.

Happy Monday.