Nothing makes me feel like Wonder Woman like a trip to church alone with three kids. I can use my supersonic sock radar to locate matching footwear for each member of the family before we head out the door. I can make it into the chapel before opening prayer. I can carry a 40 pound bag full of primary books, snacks, and rocks (every lesson has to have a visual aid you know. For some reason it is always something heavy; rocks, pitchers of water, cans of food, you get the idea) and look good doing it . . . at least for the first five minutes until somebody wipes snot on my shoulder. I can refrain from freaking out at my child who insists on removing their shoes no less than 27 times a day.
I can entertain an eight, five and two year old with stickers, snacks and books for an hour and ten minutes of listening to what my eight-year-old calls "boringness."
After the boringness, I can teach a meaningful lesson to a roomful of sweaty squirmy eight year olds without having to bribe them with candy. I can round all my own kids up afterward and herd them to the car without losing Thomas more than twice. Three times tops. I can be social in the hallway on the way out the door.
And I can be somewhat enthusiastic about doing it all alone again next week.
