Yesterday I had an industrial-sized bout of PMS, which meant that I spent a good portion of the day fighting off a full-fledged temper tantrum over all manner of Terribly Serious Issues. (For example: Alex ate around the edges of his biscuits. The edges are the best part. Eating around them makes no sense at all. How could he possibly have developed such a habit? Clearly I have Failed Motherhood.)

And then, to add insult to injury, I had to, like, share air with other people.

In short, I was a delight. Southern charm personified.

But wait! There’s more! When I dropped Alex off at his Sunday School class, he grabbed the door handle and would not let go as he Screamed Many Screams In A Fit Of High-Pitched Screamy Madness.

Since he usually walks into his classroom with a level of unbridled enthusiasm akin to what I feel when perusing the 75% off rack at Steinmart(s), I really didn’t know what to make of his reaction. He kept saying that he wanted to go to big church, no, he wanted to go home, no, he wanted to go to his class but not without mama, no, he wanted to eat cookies, no, he wanted Daddy, no, he wanted A VEGGIE TALES MOOOOOOOO-VIE, so I finally picked him up, took him out in the hallway, and snarled the following words through my gritted teeth:

“You have a choice. You can go in your class. Or we can go home. But if we go home, understand that you can’t watch TV, you can’t watch movies, and you can’t go with me to walk the puppy dogs. Do you understand?”

“I don’t understand, Mama.”

“Oh, [trying not to hiss in the middle of the pre-school wing as such behavior is not a reflection of the fruit of the Spirit] I. think. you. do. You have two options. What’s your choice?”

He opted for his class. And when he finally walked in the room, he was all calm and nonchalant and “good morning, everybody” as he took his place in the storytime circle.

Meanwhile I had broken a sweat – complete with hair plastered to my forehead – and needed a serious dose of blood pressure medication or at the very least a stout shot of whiskey before I headed back to the sanctuary.

Happy Sunday, everybody! Peace and love of the Lord be with you!

I don’t know why I’m even surprised anymore when Sundays take a nosedive. I have long contended that it’s the primary day when the devil loves to get up in our junk, and yet I was somehow shocked when my child misbehaved, when I had a mental block about the sermon, when I found myself thinking about Why The Pre-Schooler Is On My Nerves instead of reflecting on the blessing of his little life, not to mention the goodness and mercy of God.

(And if your child has never gotten on your nerves, I salute you. You’re obviously not a human, but I salute you nonetheless, Friendly Robot-Type Creature.)

So anyway. Fast forward.

After church we went to our favorite Chinese restaurant for lunch, and Alex was obviously trying to win an award for Loudest Child Ever. I, on the other hand, was trying to smack down the mighty hormones so that my response to the Loudest Child Ever would reflect some semblance of patience. It wasn’t as easy as you might think.

A few minutes into our lunch, the manager of the restaurant came over to our table, mainly to speak to Alex. They’ve gotten to be good buddies over the last three years, and as the manager started to speak, Alex stood up in his seat, stuck out his little arm, looked at the restaurant manager and said, “Wait wait wait – I need to tell you something.”

“What’s that?” the manager asked.

Alex looked him straight in the eyes, grabbed his arm, and said (loudly, of course), “God! Cares! About! You!”

The manager was a little confused, not sure of what was said, so he asked Alex to repeat himself.

And once again the little man proclaimed, “God! Cares! About! You!”

He wasn’t so much on my nerves at that point. Mainly because I was trying not to cry in the presence of such overwhelming sweetness.

Now granted, the little man wasn’t trying to round up folks for a tent meeting. He was simply repeating a variation of the Bible verse they’d talked about in his Sunday School class. But the more I’ve thought about what he did, the more I’ve realized what I don’t do, the ways I let my boldness get swallowed up by my circumstances.

Alex learned that God cares about people. And he told somebody. He did something. He took that little bit of Truth, and he acted on it. He shared it.

I would do well to do the same.

So, I have one more goal for the year that I’m going to add to the list. Since right now there’s only one thing on the list (“Keep Moving”), I think adding something new is perfectly permissible.

And here’s the new goal: find some ways to love on some people.

Why? Because God cares about them.

The first love-a-thon is already in the works. God’s timing is good like that.

More details tomorrow….

Last night I was putting Alex to bed, and when it was time to say prayers, he informed me that he was not interested in any prayer-saying, thankyouverymuch.

“Oh, Alex” I said, “you want to make sure you say your prayers. God made everything that we love, everything that we enjoy, so letting Him know that we’re thankful for those things is always the right thing to do. We want to have thankful hearts because thankful hearts honor God.”

The little man agreed with me and bowed his head – but I got all caught up in the teachable moment, so I kept going:

“Alex, did you know that God is your Heavenly Father? That He’s our Daddy in heaven? Kind of like a Big Daddy?”

Alex shook his head and said, “No, Mama. Daddy is on the couch. In the living room. Where is heaven?”

“Heaven is way up in the sky, higher up than the stars or the sun or the moon, even.”

“And Daddy’s way up in the sky?”

“No, buddy. Daddy’s in the living room, on the couch, just like you said. He’ll be in here in just a minute. God – who is your Heavenly Father – is in heaven, way up in the sky.”

“OOOOH, I get it, Mama. God lives in a spaceship!!!”

Clearly I have missed my calling in terms of teaching small children.