Sunday School? No Kidding.
I volunteered to teach Sunday School. I’ll let that sink in.
If you know me, you are thinking, “Wait. Missy volunteered to teach Sunday School? I misread this, clearly.”
There are a lot of reasons my sudden altruism seems random, not the least of which is that I don’t like kids. My kids, of course, are cute and smart and perfectly wonderful [this is where a sarcasm button would come in handy – I am not that mom]. I’m sure your kids are lovely, too.
All the other kids, though? I don’t like them.
Perhaps I shouldn’t say that I don’t like kids. Perhaps I should say that I don’t understand them. Kids frighten the snot out of me. I spend a lot of time confused…
Why won’t she stop talking about her new magic wand that’s not really magic but is plastic and goldy and goes with the scratchy dress that turns her into a princess with all the princess shoes?
Why would he put a dirty shoe in his mouth? (This is my kid, by the way.)
Why did she just wander away from circle time to do the splits with her dress lifted over her head?
When adults do these things, we chalk it up to alcohol or a certain specialness that will be addressed in therapy. Or a group home. When kids act like tiny weirdos we’re supposed to handle it wisely, gently, with love. Ugh.
It takes every ounce of self control I have not to get right down on the kid’s level and say something very mature, like, “Only a stupid poo-poo head eats crayons. Gah. Crayons don’t even taste good. You are so random.”
I fight the urge to roll my eyes at them. I fight the urge to yell at them. I fight the urge to say whatever when they launch into an unintelligible story about Storm Troopers.
Are you calling CPS yet? Please don’t. At the risk of bragging, I think I am a very good mother. My son says I’m the bestest, sweetest mommy there ever was. You see, I don’t actually say or do any of the ridiculous things I mentioned above. I just want to say and do those things. Big difference. It’s the difference between freedom and 20-to-life.
Shockingly, I think I’m a decent Sunday School teacher, too. My job is to count the kids and make sure that all ten of them arrive and depart each activity. We also color. It’s not too bad. I can handle this.
So why in the name of all that is holy did I sign on for this activity? Why did I give up my Sunday mornings to hang out with a room full of small, random people?
It’s hard to say for sure. You know when people say they felt called to do something? I kind of did. Kuh-razy. I kept getting these emails from our church saying they desperately needed Sunday School teachers. I ignored these emails.
For three years.
About two weeks ago I opened and actually read the email. Call it God. Call it guilt. Call it a bizarre God-guilt combo. Call it what you want. The result is that I emailed back and said, sure, I’ll help.
I’ve only been at my new gig for two weeks, and a couple times I have had that chest-constricting, oh crap thought. It’s a one year commitment. ONE YEAR. Heaven help me. Really, heaven, help me. But so far my son thinks having me there is the greatest thing since Dinosaur Train. And who knows? Maybe I’ll learn something. Something about me, or God, or my son, or why kids are so freaking random and scary.
I wonder, have you ever volunteered to do something out of your comfort zone? Did it feel like an out of body experience? What was the end result?
I also wonder, are you scared of kids, too?
This post is part of this week’s Word Up, Yo blog hop, a nerdilicious game brought to you by these funny ladies: A Belle, A Bean and a Chicago Dog; Mommy of a Monster (I Mean Toddler) & Infant Twins; and Taming Insanity.
As a word-dork, I have been dying to participate, but for one random reason or another, I never remember to play along. I’m excited to link up this week!