What I Said/What He Heard: Church Edition

What I said: Have fun at Sunday School, Punkin! Be a good boy for your teacher. We'll see you in just a little bit.

What he heard: Good luck in the Southern Baptist concentration camp! Don't choke on the stale goldfish crackers and watered-down apple juice. See you...never! We're going to leave you here for good. When you get out, er, that is, IF you make it out, you're on your own. It's rough out there, but please don't become a drug-addicted hobo. Have a nice life! And by the way, we love your brother more than you!

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Luke never did calm down after that. They tried as many tricks as they could to calm him down, but finally had to page me after the worship service, and about halfway through Sunday School. When I picked him up, he was being carried around the lobby with a pout on his face. The teacher explained to me that he couldn't calm down and he wouldn't stop telling her that he was too old to be in there.

"I'm too old to go in there!" he added for emphasis.

I gave him the option of going back to play with all the toys, or sitting in Cookie and Pops boring class with old people and not talking. He chose boring.

Remembering that we had made Neiman Marcus Cake to bring to Sunday School, as we approached the classroom, he demanded to know, "Which room is the cake room?????" Instead of sitting quietly in the back of the room, Little Lord Fauntleroy sat in his grandmother's lap in a small unoccupied room, having his chubby little cheeks stuffed with cake, and coloring on another class's prayer request sheets for the remainder of the hour.

Thinking ahead for next week, I warned him that I was planning on bringing a tuna noodle casserole, so it probably wouldn't be worth making such a fuss, and that he should just go ahead and stay in the two-year-old room.

How did George do in the nursery, you ask? Just fine.