undone

I stumbled into the living room this morning, still bleary eyed, and plopped down with Ethan on the couch. James paused at the computer (he was preparing something for church) long enough to greet me and introduce to me a young man with a green mustache and matching belly. He bore a striking resemblance to my dear young lad, Jonathan, and held in his hand a green Sharpie. I remember smiling, and thinking to myself, "Wow, I have finally gotten to the point where that is just funny." I wasn't thinking about how he got a Sharpie in the first place, nor how I would keep him from doing it again. I wasn't thinking about how hard it would be to scrub green ink off a squirmy toddler. I was just enjoying the moment.
A little while later, I was getting the diaper bag packed for church. I was feeling very clever as I packed Jonathan a bottle of plain water (he is starting to lose interest in bottles when they have nothing exciting inside) and a sippy cup of chocolate milk. I am still not ready to face a tired monkey without a bottle, but this is a step.
So there we are in church; we are sitting next to some friends and Jonathan is playing happily with his little buddy Kassy. I look over just in time to see a little foot bump into a little sippy cup (dial it back a few hours, I picked the sippy that doesn't screw in, it just clasps together, yeah, good job, mom) and the whole thing goes tumbling to the floor in slow motion. My mind flashes back to a similar moment when Jonathan had thrown the sippy down the stairs (he does that, every time he goes down the stairs, like it's the only way to make sure his things are there when he gets down). I stop breathing. About 14 milliseconds later the missionaries, who happen to be sitting in front of us, are covered in chocolate milk, along with half of the pew itself. I am completely mortified. "Umm, ugh, hold on, I'll get some wipes..." Thanks to the Target incident, I now know never to leave the house without them.
We somehow get through the rest of the meeting, even though my little Jonathan is bent on giving me some kind of psychotic break. At one point, during the closing prayer, he decides to break away while I am feeding Ethan. My one free hand alternately grasps every one of his appendages as I struggle to contain him. As the rest of the congregation was saying, "Amen," my dear Jonathan screamed at the top of his lungs. Some days, my truest joy comes from thinking about future grandchildren. Not for me, but for my son.