|Most definitely wearing a cloth diaper.|
There's one in every ward. You know the kid I'm talking about. The one who just. won't. shut. up. The one who giggles maniacally while the sacrament is being passed, not because he remembered some funny joke from a popsicle stick, but because his parents are tickling him. The one who runs a steeple chase under and over the pews, leaving a trail of snot and stickiness behind him. The one who runs up and down the chapel aisles like a babe possessed. Despite the locale, no exorcism is performed, to the regret of the entire congregation, minus the two who spawned such a demon.
Oh, how I judge that little innocent being, a victim of his (lack of) parenting. Oh, how I yearn to call up the she-bears to devour his parents. Oh, how I want to seize his little zip-up tie and ...
Anyway, enough of my being a Pharisee.
Here's a poem--an anti-ode, perhaps?--that I wrote about this topic.
The little brat in Sunday school will not
Obey his mother. He is screaming hell
And damning his fruit snacks. His mother laughs
And pats his gaping, sticky mouth. I roll
My eyes at the behavior, knowing that
The God above would smite the little imp
If not for age-mandated innocence.
He’s writhing like a monkey, smearing his
Be-jellied little paws against the white
Of Mother’s Renaissance blouse. She turns to
The women near her, whispers, “He is such
A little clown! You’ve got to love him.” Next
He tears the hymnal as his mother scolds,
A smile oozing love unqualified.
Behold the little one, the holy terror.