I'm a Survivor

I subbed primary on Sunday.

It leads me to wonder . . . why did God bother sending Job boils? All he had to do was lock him in a tent for two hours with half a dozen Sunbeams*. Same difference.


Oh, wait. The point was for Job to survive his trials. Forget about the Sunbeams, then.


I subbed Grant's class, specifically. You'd think I'd say "we" subbed it since I thrust the baby daughter at a passing sucker and drafted Kenny into battle. "Elder's quorum today? Oh, I don't think so, husband. This is the worse part of 'for better or worse.' You're helping.'" However, he had to spend his entire time subduing the one truly wild child in the class: Grant. Of course.


Kenny is convinced Grant's just a little immature. I'm convinced Grant doesn't understand the concept of "Chairs." I have two years of direct observation in sacrament meeting to support my theory.


Apparently, last week the two (yeah, TWO) Sunbeams classes must have been pretty um, epic, because they brought in special weaponry to subdue the natives this week: Birdies. That they had to sit on to keep warm. 


Yep.


Little laminated birdies which each kid had to keep under his bottom or the birdie would get cold. "Ethan, get back in your seat. Ethan! In your seat, NOW. Leave Sister Johnson's skirt alone. Don't you care that your birdie is DYING? What is wrong with you?"


I can't say I was comfortable sitting on my bird because I kept seeing its one little eye staring up at my . . . me. Up at me. 


And all that was just sharing time. The only sane moment was when our six Sunbeams lost themselves in their dramatic interpretations of "The Snowman Song." Then they herded us down the hall to a tiny little shoebox of a room. They opened the door and waved us in, then shoved a battered manila envelop full of pretzels and thimble-sized paper cups at us before pulling the door closed and holding it shut on the other side. Kenny beat on it and yelled but they still wouldn't let him out.


I did have a few tools. I had smuggled in a baggie of mismatched crayons and some printer paper. "Okay, kids. Draw a picture of yourself." They did. It was sad. Based on the portraits, I think they might have terrible self-esteem.


After the last parent wandered by to pick up their child after church (and let's give them credit for that, because if those were my kids, I would have been bolting for the getaway car after the last Amen), we straggled back to the primary room to return the hardtack and grog they had provisioned us with. (Of course, one of those kids WAS mine but we couldn't outrun him.)


"How did it go?" the primary president asked brightly. How do they all have the exact same tone of voice regardless of their age, race, or throat polyps?


"How did it go? HOW DID IT GO? I'll tell you how it went--" but then Kenny dragged me out before I could finish screaming obscenities.


Guys, it was worse than CUB SCOUTS.


Yeah, that bad.


*Three-year-olds