Hubris

While sitting at the organ today, I looked lovingly at my husband and three youngest children and thought, "Just look at that! Only three short years ago, we were the subjects of an entire fireside addressing irreverence in our ward. But NOW! Look at us! WE ARE SO REVERENT!"

At that very moment nemesis was lurking under Timothy's shirt in the form of a white plastic electronic disk out of Nigel's Tweety Bird birthday balloon.

It carried on lurking right through the first two speakers and a lengthy musical number, but about five minutes into the High Council talk, Tom discovered it and yanked it out. It was motion sensitive, of course, so Tweety immediately announced in a loud voice:

"A witto biwd told me it was yow BIWTHDAY! (singing, obnoxious Tweety Bird voice)
Happy Biwthday to you,
Happy Biwthday to you,
Happy Biwthday witto tweety,
Happy Biwthday to YOU!
A BIG Happy Biwthday fwom a witto chick!"

The entire Mumford bench collapsed into a heaving, soggy pile of hilarity. Both adults were seized by the fatal combination of deep mortification and uncontrollable giggles. Without fully thinking things through, Tom attempted to muffle the singing (it was pretty loud) and as a result set the whole song off for a second time.

Tim and Nigel were both laughing--loudly--and Alex was trying to crawl under the bench. Tom and I were both hiding our magenta faces from each other and the rest of the congregation. Taking it out while it was in full voice was impossible, but the song lasted an unbearably long time. The High Councilor valiantly pressed on with his talk, although it was nearly inaudible.

At last, the song ended, and Tom and I started arguing, sotto voice, about who should have to carry the salad-plate-sized object out. It wasn't something you could tuck under your arm or in a bag--its extreme sensitivity to motion meant that it needed to be carried like a stick of live dynamite, S L O W L Y, S L O W L Y and
G I N G E R L Y down the aisle. The ultimate humiliation.

Alex at last took it. It didn't go off until he had (barely) cleared the chapel door. So much for the Mumfords and reverence.

When we got home, Tom asked Timmy sternly whether or not he had learned his lesson. "You'll never do something like that again, will you?" he asked, iron in his voice. "You've learned that it isn't worth it, haven't you?"

There was a long pause while Tim quite obviously considered whether it was more dangerous to tell a bald-faced lie, or whether he ought to risk the wrath of Dad by admitting that it was about the most worthwhile caper he had ever attempted.

"I think," he said at last, "that I won't try that idea again."

There's a ward fireside tonight--no kids, just parents. Wonder what they're going to talk about.

In other Tim moments:

Tim wasn't just pathologically irreverent in Sacrament meeting, he was miserably bad in Primary, too, so Tom and I had (yet another) big talk about reverence when we got home. Tim said, "Look. I've learned all there is to know at my level. I'm ready to move up."

"You have not!" Alex, who was illegally lurking, said. "Who wrote down the Book of Mormon when Joseph Smith was translating?"

"Well," Tim replied, "at first it was his wife, Emma, and then it was Oliver Cowdery."

Also, Wednesday night, he told me that he had written a "lyric poem" about his future. I asked him what the poem said.

"It's just about how I'll feel when at last I'm in my room with all my materials, inventing," he said.

"But Tim," I said, "What materials do you need? I'll get you stuff so you can start inventing now."

He sighed. "Sorry, Mom. That won't work. Eight is too young to weld."