March, 2013

Si Hoc Legere Scis Nimium Eruditionis Habes
(If You Can Read This, You Are Over-Educated)

"How do you feel about teaching Sunday School for a month?" Ducky bit back a laugh at my look (clearly one of horror). "I guessed as much. I told Fr. Parker I'd be glad to help out. One of the teachers is having her hip replaced, she'll be out for a few weeks."

"When?"

"This March."

I did some fast calculating. "All March?" He nodded. "Easter?" I squeaked. He nodded again. "What teacher?"

"Harriett Andreas." As if I didn't recognize the name, he added, "Alexandra's class."

I winced. My mother was a substitute teacher all the time I was in school. She carefully avoided assignments if Ray or I were in the class, but sometimes it slipped up in the office and mom was in front of the room when he or I walked in. I love my mother and loved her even then—but it made for a lonnnnnnnng day.

But maybe it wouldn't be that bad. Sunday School. Ducky, beloved adopted uncle to so many children, full of stories and tales. Room full of squirrely four year olds. Parents nearby in the church.

Who am I kidding? He's toast.

As room mother for Lexi's Sunday School class, it was my responsibility to make sure the snack for the class was kept stocked. We had flats of milk and juice cartons in the parish hall kitchen and big jars of animal crackers and cheese crackers locked in the classroom. I'd make sure to send a thermos full of Earl Gray tea for Ducky. Or maybe Scotch.

The first weekend wasn't bad. ("Are ye gonna help?" Fr. Parker asked as I dashed by the office with the fresh snacks. "Are you kidding?" I called back. "We stopped at one kid because I don't want to be outnumbered!") For the most part the kids play games as they would in any other preschool; for about 20 minutes they sit and talk about stories from the bible or what's going on in the church. Since Lent had only been in gear a couple of weeks, the first Sunday Ducky subbed they discussed what everyone was giving up for Lent and how they were doing. A lot of kids had given up candy and were struggling with it. Bad choice. Okay, I understand the concept of sacrifice—but kids? Candy? Heading into Easter? Get real. I tried it first and second grade and wised up by third grade; I gave up playing jacks. I was the jacks champ of third grade; giving it up was almost as hard as giving up candy. My brother always volunteered to give up homework.

The second Sunday, Mother got it into her head to go to church, so Ducky drove in with Lexi for the 8:00 service and I brought Mother for the 9:30 service while Ducky was wrangling four-year-olds in the classroom. We stopped by to help put things back in order before heading home. Ducky looked tired and I told him so.

"They're very… energetic," he admitted. "And many of them are new to coming to church, so there's quite a bit of ground to cover."

I gave him a kiss on the cheek. "I'm sure you're doing a marvy job. Why don't you take a short nap before lunch?" (He slept through until half past one.)

The next week was even worse. "One dear little girl has her holidays totally mixed up," he said while I ran the carpet sweeper in the classroom. Harriett Andreas doesn't allow cookies to be ground into the carpet, but Harriett Andreas has also been teaching Sunday School since before the Old Testament was written and runs her classroom as a gentle dictatorship. "She asked if Easter was somebody's birthday."

"Recent convert?"

"I believe so. And another lad piped up, 'No, that's when Jesus got reincarnated!'"

I laughed. "Welcome to Comparative Religion 1-A."

"I'm just worried Fr. Parker will think I taught them these things."

"I doubt it."

The next week was pure chaos. As room mother, I was overseer of the Easter egg dying bonanza. Each kid wore a smock of a worn out shirt from a parent, we put plastic gloves on them and taped them in place, but they still went home wearing all colors of the rainbow. But they each had half a dozen nifty colored eggs to take home and hunt the next weekend.

One week to go. For Easter treats we opted for tiny Easter baskets. While the eggs were drying, the kids took strawberry baskets, decorated them with foam cutouts and tied yarn handles to them, filled them with plastic grass. Ducky and I would fill them Saturday night before Easter (fortunately, we had no food allergies in the group that would need working around) and put them out on the table right before class.

I couldn't leave my poor, defenseless husband alone with a room full of sugared-up preschoolers (I know they would have grabbed fistfuls of stuff from their baskets at home; duh) any more than I would have left him alone to oversee the dying of twelve dozen eggs the weekend before. Lily, Ev and Charlie sat with Mother during Easter service while I helped Ducky keep 24 kids from running amok (and I said to myself over and over, God, I'm glad I don't do this for a living).

We managed to bring them down to the ground long enough to sit for the lesson. I had to gently drag one little boy back from his basket four times, but finally he settled down. Ducky had just gotten to the 'on the third day, they rolled the stone back from the tomb' part of the story, and he noticed one young girl on the edge of the group who looked like she was burning brain cells from the frown of concentration on her face. "Ashley, do you have a question?" Ducky asked.

She thought for a long moment, then blurted out: "What if he was only was just pass out, and he woke up and an' got a ride home like my brother las' night?"

Ducky's jaw dropped slightly. "Ah—that is—I—ah—"

Before he could gather his wits, another voice piped up, "No, he saw his shadda and we gots a long winner!"

So far Jesus has been reincarnated, passed out drunk and turned into a groundhog. I know Jim Parker won't blame Ducky… but I'm betting Ducky doesn't volunteer to teach Sunday School for a long, long time.