The Rules
The Rules
I have three theories of life:
1) Things are always at their worst right before they work out
2) Things that make you sick with dread always turn out to be better than you thought (and conversely, things that you thought were going to be perfect are always horrible)
3) Things always work out for the best
My husband doesn’t subscribe to any of these theories. He doesn’t think things ALWAYS work out and he thinks that if something looks terrible, it usually is. So we have a problem and as usual, the problem is that I’m right and he’s wrong. And I can prove it.
Take Sunday morning, for example. I have the best/worst job in the church, Primary chorister. There are some problems with me being chorister, not that least of which is that I can’t sing. But the worst part is the doggone visual aids. I just can’t do them.
Now the problem with church jobs is that you have to do them mostly in front of everybody else in the ward—which around here usually means your neighborhood. No comforting anonymity like in my son’s ward in LA where the chances of ever meeting another Mormon, let alone someone from your ward, are about a million to one. This probably doesn’t’ both you at all because you’re cool, calm, and collected but it drives me crazy—especially in areas where I’m a complete incompetent.
About 9 o’clock Sunday morning I start to feel like I’m going to throw up. None of my ideas seem good enough so I toss them out and try new ones. Last Sunday I wanted to cover a felt board with blue stars and red and blue stripes. Under the stars would be the songs I’d picked: “What Do You Do in the Summertime,” “Keep the Commandments,” and “The Star-Spangled Banner.” Happy little children would come pick them off the board and trip lightly back to their seats carrying their prize.
I can’t draw a darn star. I cut out some circles and covered them with sparklies, to sort of make “stars.” They looked like ugly Christmas balls. I throw those out and try making a construction paper flag. By this time, I’m swearing like a Bible-toting truck driver.
YOU never get mad at your family when you’re preparing your Primary lesson because your kids never want you to make breakfast and your phone never rins with people asking you to do something else right in the middle of trying to figure out how to make a felt board look patriotic. You never wear at your spouse because he’s in the +#@* was when you were trying to find Scotch tape. What the heck is he doing standing in front of that cabinet?
By 12 noon I’m hollering at people and vengeful. Don’t cross me because I know where you live. I’m so mad I can’t think of anything. Finally I go with my first stupid idea, which was to blow up balloons and stick the songs in them. I’ve done this before but I’m stuck. I fold up the felt board and leave my bedroom floor covered with construction paper and silver stars in the carpet pile.
I’ve missed the first part of Sacrament meeting blowing up balloons so it seems like Primary starts right away. I’ve decided to relax and let go of my worries about being perfect, and finally the rules kick in. Every Sunday, it works out.
It always works out in direct proportion to how mean I’ve actually been to everyone at home. If I smile when my husband asks me 10 minutes before church if I could sew the button on his shirt, if I make my son a milkshake for breakfast with bananas and orange juice, just because he wants it, if I don’t kick the dog when he wants in and out 12 times, it always goes great. I think of funny things to say to make up for my stupid props. I never can remember the words to the songs because I get so nervous, so I get helpers to come up and sing.
Things ALWAYS work out, EVERYTHING always goes wrong at the last minute, and the worse I dread it, the better it is when I get there.
And the best part is I’m ALWAYS right and my husband is always wrong.
I have three theories of life:
1) Things are always at their worst right before they work out
2) Things that make you sick with dread always turn out to be better than you thought (and conversely, things that you thought were going to be perfect are always horrible)
3) Things always work out for the best
My husband doesn’t subscribe to any of these theories. He doesn’t think things ALWAYS work out and he thinks that if something looks terrible, it usually is. So we have a problem and as usual, the problem is that I’m right and he’s wrong. And I can prove it.
Take Sunday morning, for example. I have the best/worst job in the church, Primary chorister. There are some problems with me being chorister, not that least of which is that I can’t sing. But the worst part is the doggone visual aids. I just can’t do them.
Now the problem with church jobs is that you have to do them mostly in front of everybody else in the ward—which around here usually means your neighborhood. No comforting anonymity like in my son’s ward in LA where the chances of ever meeting another Mormon, let alone someone from your ward, are about a million to one. This probably doesn’t’ both you at all because you’re cool, calm, and collected but it drives me crazy—especially in areas where I’m a complete incompetent.
About 9 o’clock Sunday morning I start to feel like I’m going to throw up. None of my ideas seem good enough so I toss them out and try new ones. Last Sunday I wanted to cover a felt board with blue stars and red and blue stripes. Under the stars would be the songs I’d picked: “What Do You Do in the Summertime,” “Keep the Commandments,” and “The Star-Spangled Banner.” Happy little children would come pick them off the board and trip lightly back to their seats carrying their prize.
I can’t draw a darn star. I cut out some circles and covered them with sparklies, to sort of make “stars.” They looked like ugly Christmas balls. I throw those out and try making a construction paper flag. By this time, I’m swearing like a Bible-toting truck driver.
YOU never get mad at your family when you’re preparing your Primary lesson because your kids never want you to make breakfast and your phone never rins with people asking you to do something else right in the middle of trying to figure out how to make a felt board look patriotic. You never wear at your spouse because he’s in the +#@* was when you were trying to find Scotch tape. What the heck is he doing standing in front of that cabinet?
By 12 noon I’m hollering at people and vengeful. Don’t cross me because I know where you live. I’m so mad I can’t think of anything. Finally I go with my first stupid idea, which was to blow up balloons and stick the songs in them. I’ve done this before but I’m stuck. I fold up the felt board and leave my bedroom floor covered with construction paper and silver stars in the carpet pile.
I’ve missed the first part of Sacrament meeting blowing up balloons so it seems like Primary starts right away. I’ve decided to relax and let go of my worries about being perfect, and finally the rules kick in. Every Sunday, it works out.
It always works out in direct proportion to how mean I’ve actually been to everyone at home. If I smile when my husband asks me 10 minutes before church if I could sew the button on his shirt, if I make my son a milkshake for breakfast with bananas and orange juice, just because he wants it, if I don’t kick the dog when he wants in and out 12 times, it always goes great. I think of funny things to say to make up for my stupid props. I never can remember the words to the songs because I get so nervous, so I get helpers to come up and sing.
Things ALWAYS work out, EVERYTHING always goes wrong at the last minute, and the worse I dread it, the better it is when I get there.
And the best part is I’m ALWAYS right and my husband is always wrong.
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