For the record, I did NOT fart in church

Yesterday at church I was attempting to listen to the morning's announcements while the kid bounced around on my lap, seemingly oblivious to the fact that we were in church. She ate fruit snacks (rejecting a "tainted" one that had two colors swirled together and spitting it into my hand), flipped through the hymnal, and flirted with a man who was sitting behind us. At one point she leaned in, hugged me around the neck, and then said, "Mama, you farted!" Please believe me when I say that I was not, in fact, guilty of this particular offense. If I had been, I would've admitted it.

"I didn't fart. Now, shhhh while the lady is talking, okay?"

"But you farted!" It was a little louder this time. I swiveled my head around to look at the churchgoers in the nearby rows. I smiled as if to say, "Farting in church! Ha ha! Who would do that, eh? This kid - such a card!"

I hissed at her through my teeth, "Okay, yes, fine. Now just shush." It seemed preferable to confess to a crime falsely than to let the scene escalate any further. She smiled at me as if to say, "See? I knew it!"

Shortly thereafter, the kids were called to the front for a segment called "a story for all ages." When A was younger I always sat on the floor with her but now that she is older, I send her up there by herself. Usually one of the older girls will look after her. On most Sundays there are ten or so kids who huddle around an it's-seen-better-days rocking chair to listen to a story. Will it surprise you to know that, week after week, my child is the only one who feels compelled to talk through the whole thing? (And also loudly points out that the rocker is broken.) Reverend Sandy is always so patient with her. She'll read a page and then A will say something that has nothing to do with anything ("Teddy bear is scared of dragons!"). And Reverend Sandy will smile and nod at her as if these interjections actually have some basis in reality. During the story time I notice that a lot of the parents will turn and look at me - a look that lies somewhere between pity and mirth. I don't know what they are thinking, but it's probably something like, "Better you than me, eh?"

I keep thinking of the adoption paperwork we filled out a few years ago, where we stated that we were willing to accept twins if such an opportunity arose (we drew the line at triplets, though). I love my daughter in a way that is beyond words, but two of her? Aye carumba.