So yesterday I was sitting in church trying to pay attention to the
super hot preacher sermon, which is always a challenging endeavor because the short people in my pew tend to act like, you know, kids, and their father is too nice to call them out from the pulpit. As I was scribbling down some sort of note-type thing I couldn’t help but notice that my daughter was making quiet, panicked noises of distress.
I am nothing if not tender and compassionate when being interrupted for the 7,000th time during one sermon, so I responded with a very gentle, loving hiss of “Be quiet! Daddy’s preaching!”
“Dere’s a sticker in my nose, Mommy!”
“What? No there isn’t. The sticker is right there.”
The look on my three-year-old’s face would have made her future teenage self very proud. She jammed her little finger up her nose and whimpered again. I
sighed heavily smiled sweetly with all the kindness you would expect from a minister’s wife and tilted her head back. Sure enough, nestled in her little nostril was a tiny round sticker, folded in half and glistening with toddler snot.
Once again we would not be making it through a morning service without me and Squeezy parading down the aisle to the back of the church for one reason or another. I stopped to ask one of the ladies at the back of the church if she happened to have a pair of tweezers, and thankfully she did.
Which is why, on Sunday morning at 11:20, I had my daughter laid out flat on the couch in the conference room as I fished a ladybug sticker out of her nose.
“Thank you so much!” I whispered as I handed back the tweezers. “I’m pretty sure I got all the boogers off . . .”