Panty Pop

I have been waiting to write this post since it all went down, but unfortunately yesterday a deflated Santa Claus got in my way. Never fear - now I can share with you the chain of events that was my Sunday. I have mentioned before that I devoted an entire chapter in my upcoming book to Sundays with my family, simply because the Lord's Day, what should be the most restful and relaxing day of the week, often turns into the most hectic and humiliating day for me. Allow me to explain.
We live in a small town where everybody knows everybody else, and most of their business as well. And if they don't know all the details about your business, well, don't worry - they'll just make something up. The church we attend is one of those small town churches where everyone has their pew reserved. Well, not really reserved, it's just sort of understood that this is where so and so sits every Sunday. Want to get the stink eye in a small town church? Sit in someone else's seat. Go ahead, I dare you.
Before we got the amazing opportunity to appear on America's Funniest Home Videos, I used to think that sending my children down front on Sundays for children's time was the most terrifying thing in the world. I confess that while everyone else was praying for dear old Granny Jones who fell and broke her hip, I was sitting in the back praying that my kids didn't say something too horrible or inappropriate in front of the whole church. I now stand corrected, however. Having someone hand your kid a microphone on TV is the most terrifying thing in the world. That gives them the chance to humiliate you on a global scale.
Anyway, last Sunday my kids headed to the front of the church at a run (doesn't seem to matter how many times I say, "we don't run in the church.") I think what we are missing is one of those terrifying old ladies that I grew up in church with who would have clotheslined your ass and then told your mother they did it. It was perfectly acceptable to discipline other people's kids AND tell your parents so they could tear your butt up when you got home. Now you would have a lawsuit on your hands.
When my kids got to the front of the room, our sweet, patient, retired school teacher of a pastor's wife told her story slowly and carefully about a family of bears getting ready for Christmas. I'm sure there was some extremely profound Christian message in there somewhere, but again I confess I was busy praying they got back to their seats without telling a fart joke or using one of Daddy's "sale barn words." When she had reached the end of her story, Mrs. Linda said, "Let's pray." And suddenly, with the immediate and awful recognition of one of my children's voices, I heard, "Wait a minute, wait a minute! I have a question." Oh, hell, here we go. "Mrs. Linda, did those bears really talk?" Awesome. Obviously she was listening carefully to the content of the story as well!
The completely unflappable Mrs. Linda kindly explained that another child had asked her the exact same question, and that the characters in the story spoke "bear" but she didn't, so she had to tell them what was said in English. Well played, Mrs. L. Well played.
Our fun at church continued when the offering plate was passed. My children have not yet learned the fine art of simply placing your money in the plate. They have to hold it themselves in order to feel that they have done their part. When the first sister refused to turn loose of said plate, a silent but violent war broke out. It was a struggle to the death over who was going to hold that plate. As visions of money flying through the air flickered through my brain, I silently reached over, placed one hand on the arm of each child, and squeezed it as hard as I could. I then returned the plate to the usher and glared at my kids while the people across the aisle snickered uncontrollably.
The most memorable moment from this particular service came, however, when we stood up for the closing prayer. My underwear was, as rodeo clown Lecile Harris used to say, "Indian underwear - it keeps creeping up on me!" It had indeed crept up on me, so I thought the appropriate thing to do was wait until the prayer. At least that way most of the people in the room (and hopefully the ones behind me) would have their eyes closed. So I waited, and waited, and then it was time. With tremendous amounts of stealth and my head bowed, I reached around behind me, grabbed both sides of my undies and "POW!" Quite possibly the loudest sound elastic has ever made since the dawn of time. My husband snickered under his breath, right on the edge of losing it all together, and I'm pretty sure everybody in the church who doesn't use a hearing aid heard it. I know the people behind me did!
And here's the kicker - I thought that was the most embarrassing moment of my day! Little did I know there was more to come. After a relatively uneventful meal at our favorite Mexican restaurant, I headed to the restroom. As we were getting ready to leave, our overly friendly waiter walked up behind me, tapped me on the shoulder, and informed me that the back of my dress was tucked in my underwear! Before I was a mother of three (I'm pretty sure most of my modesty left my body with my babies) I would have literally passed out from the horror of it all. As it was, I laughed until I cried and decided I needed to go home. Fast.
I'm thinking I should invest in new underwear. Maybe it will change my luck. Perhaps a thong! Or maybe not.