Every Sunday, it is the same routine:
I shuffle all of the kids into the chapel and find our bench on the far right side of the room, a few rows from the front.
Bryson usually goes in first and sits closest to the wall. Jeff follows him, then Nate and finally Rae. I try to take the place closest to the aisle, but not on the aisle because Cora plays organ frequently and needs the aisle seat when she returns from playing. My hope and expectation is that I will be able to sit next to my sweetheart.
Immediately after we are seated, Jeff and Bryse begin..... "Dad, Jeff is kicking me."
"Don't touch each other. Fold your arms, sit facing forward and listen to the music," I say.
Thirty-four seconds pass and all is well.
On the thirty-fifth second, chaos begins again: "Bryse is licking my ear."
"Okay, guys! You blew it. Bryse, go sit on the other side of the bench."
Bryse goes to the aisle seat. This leaves Jeff closest to the wall, then Nate...followed by Rae.
Nineteen seconds pass before I'm reminding Nathan and Jeffrey to quiet down. "Fold your arms and stop goofin' around." Nathan quickly responds, "No!", then falls to the ground and continues chanting "No!" I quickly grab him, then set him on the other side of me.
I now have two children on the left of me and two on the right, with a baby in my arms. I then realize that unless Cora returns quickly, I'm going to be like a spectator at a tennis match, turning my head left to right, reminding the children on each side of me about the importance of being reverent.
I become dizzy with all the back-and-forth motion of keeping children quiet. Just at my breaking point, Cora returns to sit with us. We always give each other wonderful looks on Sunday. My eyes show the pleading and expressed frustration, followed by a look of gratitude. Her look is one of, "Welcome to my life Dawg!"
Needless to say, by the time Cora returns, my fantasy world of sitting next to her is long gone. The bench now goes in order: Bryse, Cora, Nate, me and the babe, then Jeff. Rachel is the constantly moving target that neither one of us can seem to capture. If she sits in one spot for more than five seconds, we consider ourselves fortunate.
On some Sundays, I find myself humming to No More Monkeys Jumping On The Bed. This song represent a large quantity of children that slowly disappear because of their behavior. Perhaps the lyrics should change a little:
Four Little Moser Children sitting on a pew, one teases the other and gets a new view.
Daddy tells the children to listen and sit up straight. No more pokes and whispers or you'll go to bed before Eight.
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"You unlock this door with the key of imagination . . .Beyond it is another dimension—a dimension of sound, a dimension of sight, a dimension of mind. You're moving into a land of both shadow and substance, of things and ideas. You've just crossed over into The Moser Zone."
I shuffle all of the kids into the chapel and find our bench on the far right side of the room, a few rows from the front.
Bryson usually goes in first and sits closest to the wall. Jeff follows him, then Nate and finally Rae. I try to take the place closest to the aisle, but not on the aisle because Cora plays organ frequently and needs the aisle seat when she returns from playing. My hope and expectation is that I will be able to sit next to my sweetheart.
Immediately after we are seated, Jeff and Bryse begin..... "Dad, Jeff is kicking me."
"Don't touch each other. Fold your arms, sit facing forward and listen to the music," I say.
Thirty-four seconds pass and all is well.
On the thirty-fifth second, chaos begins again: "Bryse is licking my ear."
"Okay, guys! You blew it. Bryse, go sit on the other side of the bench."
Bryse goes to the aisle seat. This leaves Jeff closest to the wall, then Nate...followed by Rae.
Nineteen seconds pass before I'm reminding Nathan and Jeffrey to quiet down. "Fold your arms and stop goofin' around." Nathan quickly responds, "No!", then falls to the ground and continues chanting "No!" I quickly grab him, then set him on the other side of me.
I now have two children on the left of me and two on the right, with a baby in my arms. I then realize that unless Cora returns quickly, I'm going to be like a spectator at a tennis match, turning my head left to right, reminding the children on each side of me about the importance of being reverent.
I become dizzy with all the back-and-forth motion of keeping children quiet. Just at my breaking point, Cora returns to sit with us. We always give each other wonderful looks on Sunday. My eyes show the pleading and expressed frustration, followed by a look of gratitude. Her look is one of, "Welcome to my life Dawg!"
Needless to say, by the time Cora returns, my fantasy world of sitting next to her is long gone. The bench now goes in order: Bryse, Cora, Nate, me and the babe, then Jeff. Rachel is the constantly moving target that neither one of us can seem to capture. If she sits in one spot for more than five seconds, we consider ourselves fortunate.
On some Sundays, I find myself humming to No More Monkeys Jumping On The Bed. This song represent a large quantity of children that slowly disappear because of their behavior. Perhaps the lyrics should change a little:
Four Little Moser Children sitting on a pew, one teases the other and gets a new view.
Daddy tells the children to listen and sit up straight. No more pokes and whispers or you'll go to bed before Eight.
------------
"You unlock this door with the key of imagination . . .Beyond it is another dimension—a dimension of sound, a dimension of sight, a dimension of mind. You're moving into a land of both shadow and substance, of things and ideas. You've just crossed over into The Moser Zone."
Thanks for reminding me why I only want 2 kids.
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