CORNER

Nancy and I are at an age when holidays arrive, and our daily thoughts turn to memories of years gone by. We were both single parents for a time.

We alone were responsible for ensuring our children would be ready when special events were looming. As they became older, a simple word of warning would suffice. Maybe two. More than two warnings and I, for one, would either use more forceful measures or throw up my hands in surrender, depending on the event. If the occasion involved grandparents, getting the kids ready, no matter the cost to my sanity, must occur.

When my children were young, my son, Ken, had just turned two, and my daughter, Dawn, was not quite four, I was in charge of dressing them for Easter Sunday. My mom set a deadline for her grandchildren to be at church no later than 9:30 AM on Sunday, so they could attend Sunday school.

Earlier that week, Mom had bought each child an Easter outfit. Dawn was to wear a frilly yellow dress with white ruffle trim, white shoes, white socks, and, to complete the ensemble, a white hat with yellow trim over her beautiful blond hair. Ken’s Easter wear was a white shirt with a blue collar and shiny brass-colored buttons down the front. Blue shorts, white socks, and black shoes completed the sailor’s outfit, replete with a sailor’s cap nestled atop his blond head.

My task was simple. Feed my kids breakfast, give them baths, and dress them in their cute and colorful Easter clothes. Then I shower, dress, and get them to church, obeying Mom’s schedule.

Everything was running smoothly. All was done except my getting showered and dressed.

For two and four-yearolds, my children were usually well-behaved and slightly above moderately obedient. In those days, I could shower and dress in fifteen minutes. I sat Dawn and Ken on the living room sofa, a few feet from my bedroom. I equipped them with a couple of Dr. Seuss books. I instructed them to stay on the sofa until I came out.

Shower done, I was getting dressed, and hearing the assuring giggles from my two blessings. I was actually ahead of schedule, feeling a bit of pride flowing through me. I finished knotting my tie, grabbed my suitcoat, and headed out the door. Still hearing the giggles, I looked toward the sofa and saw… nothing. No children were sitting with Dr. Seuss books resting on their welldressed laps. No well-behaved munchkins ready for church to dazzle Grandma and Grandpa.

As the giggles became louder, my eyes found the location of the chuckles. Sitting on the brick edge of the fireplace and covered in month-old soot and ash were my two adorable urchins. The Easter clothes my mom had bought and looked forward to seeing the kids in were ruined.

There was not enough time to wash and dry the clothes. That and they both needed bathing again. They were covered from head to foot in ash. Yes. They had removed their shoes and socks so they could immerse themselves fully in the experience of destroying my day.

They would not get blamed. I would. I should have been angry with them, but though my eyes were severe, my mouth had this curious upturn to it. Their innocence was in their glee. I couldn’t find it within myself to be irritated with them. The only thing left to do was plop them into the bathtub and pick out different clothes for them to wear.

While gathering clean clothes for them, I heard them giggling again. Slightly jaded from past giggling, I went to check on them in the tub, help them finish, get them dressed, and get them to the church for the start of the Easter service.

As the saying goes, “The best laid plans of mice and men…” This man’s plan was about to go awry again. When I looked in on them in the tub, they were bobbing something around in the soapy Mr. Bubbles water. On closer inspection, the object they kept pushing under the water that kept bobbing back to the surface was… well, there’s no better way to put this. It was poop; One of 3 or 4 floating in the tub.

I didn’t hold an inquisition on who was responsible. I was too busy laughing, a laugh that was half hysteria and half humorous. I pulled them out of the bathtub, drained the tub, cleaned out the poo, and ran another Mr. Bubbles bath.

Now dressed, frazzled, in the car, and driving the 10 minutes to church, I had missed Sunday school but knew I would make it on time for the service. As I pulled into the church parking lot, at the top of the stairs just outside the doors of the church, was my mom.

The look on her face was anything but relief. It was the same look I used to get when I was caught doing something I wasn’t supposed to be doing. After going through the stressful events of the morning, her face softened somewhat, at least long enough for her to notice that Dawn’s necklength blond hair was more like a bird’s nest. Mom grabbed Dawn up in her arms and ran into the church. I picked Ken up and went into the church to find Dad. Dad laughed after I retold the events of that morning.

Dawn and Mom came to where Dad and I were sitting. Mom had put Dawn’s hair into slightly damp pigtails. She was still adorable. After the service, Mom told all who would listen what had happened to the Easter clothes that she had bought for her grandchildren. She left out the “poo bath”.

I had grown up in that church. People knew the situation. Some laughed, and others gave me a knowing and sympathetic smile. There would be other near-disasters ahead. There would be frustrations and doubts about my ability as a single father as my kids grew older.

As a senior citizen with great-grandchildren, I realize that the perfect parent does not exist. Mistakes will be made. Correcting those mistakes will be important. Admitting you’re wrong is okay. There is no secret formula for being a parent, except to love your children.

Remember, Jesus said, “Permit the children to come to Me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these.” Luke 18:16