Move over, Herdmans...

I used to love it when my teachers would read The Best Christmas Pageant Ever.

Obviously, whoever wrote that book knew what was in store for me and is, right now at this very moment, having a good chuckle at my expense.

Last night was the Christmas play at church.

For months, we've been practicing. I've taken Ethan to every single practice, except maybe one. We've listened to the sound track and sang Christmas songs on the way to and from school every single day. We've practiced his line -- his one, single line -- every single day.

I'm thinking.. Mommy-of-the-Year.

Oh, and Ethan is going to be discovered and rocket to superstardom as a child actor, only without all of the post-childhood issues.

Mmmmm.... k. Maybe not.

Let me tell you how all of this played out.

First, there was the practice Saturday. My mom took Ethan because I have come down with an undiagnosed stomach illness that puts Montezuma's Revenge to shame.... and I didn't even get to go to Mexico.

Of course, that may be not be a bad thing. Come to think of it, I've never had good experiences in Mexico.

Back to the story at hand.

So, she took Ethan to practice and said that he was wonderful.

Of course he was. He is, after all, the apple of my eye. But, there was the slight problem with last Wednesday night's practice when he wasn't so wonderful, Laney was yakking (reflux, not sick), and we (Ethan, me, and the wooden spoon) had to take a moment to reflect on what was and was not appropriate for church behavior -- in the middle of rehearsal.

After Saturday's practice, which I didn't attend, I was thinking all is cured.

Good thing, since I could barely drag myself from my death bed.

Sunday night rolls around, and we finally head off to church. Nothing is simple in our house, however, so we never just "head off to church."

We had to locate, wrap, and load up 574 presents for various and sorted friends, teachers, etc. because the church Christmas tree exchange is after the program... as if the stress of the program isn't enough to turn all moms into sinners...

With the exchange comes an opportunity to eat... which my mom, graciously, took care of for me by making extra food, but I volunteered to bring drinks...which Keith forgot to unload once we actually made it to church. As I type, they are rolling around on the floor of the MV.

Presents -- check.
Drinks -- check.
Kids -- check.
Ethan's costume -- one Eskimo parka and boots -- check.
Laney's bag -- check.
Bottle for screaming meanie.... Umm....

I knew I'd forget something -- but she wasn't even poorly behaved in light of her brother's show of hiney.

Fastforward to actually being in the van.

K: "Ethan's asleep."
Me: "Good."
Translation -- I am going to vomit any moment, and I need all the peace I can get.

Ever heard of the calm before the storm?
Whoever coined this phrase knew my son would, one day, be in existance.

We get to church and begin the unloading. I start to unbuckle Ethan's belt, and all hell breaks loose.

He begins to wail.

For no apparent reason.

He continues to wail... through the 30 minutes of waiting before the show, through the processional, and into the beginning of the play.

Now, I tried to calm him down. I tried to comfort him. I tried the stern voice. I threatened him. I did everything I could think of... to no avail. I left him squalling and snorting with Lindsey, bless her, his "guardian" in the processional.

I thought if I left him, he might just straighten up on his own.

No such luck.

As soon as they opened the door, you could hear this awful, pitiful howl.

It was my son.

In his furry parka and big booty-kickin' boots, he stomped around the church, wailing at the top of his lungs.

People took pictures. People snickered. People murmured about how cute he was.

Cute, my big toe.

He looked like an Eskimo because his eyes were all squinty from crying so much, and there was snot running down his face.

Holy cow.

When his wailing turned to high-pitched bleats, I calmly left my seat (and my hungry daughter) and went down to the front.

Parade of 1. I always love those moments.

I sat down on the floor with the directors, who were probably wishing I'd just snatch him up and run...

And he calmed down.

Well, he at least stopped bleating.

After a few more minutes, he stopped wailing... and then crying all together.

Hallelujah!

Now, he stared at me the entire time, and for the next 15 minutes, he didn't sing a word, but at least he wasn't bringing down the wall of Jericho with his wails.

He also took his coat off, making the program less one Eskimo, but I didn't care. (Well, not really, at least until I realized the shirt he had on underneath -- plain white long sleeve t -- had orange stains on the front... my worst nightmare... not only is my kid acting like a donkey, but he looks like his mom just sent him on to the Christmas play after a hard day at the bar...)

I'm thinking we're making progress. By the time it was his turn to say his line, he was almost dang near chipper.

Almost.

Emma, cute little cherub and cousin of Ethan who was making Ethan look like an ogre because of her angelic behavior, tried to give him his star to hang on tree.

It was his job... along with saying, "It's a star! We always have a star on top of our tree."

He did neither.

What he did do was bring his arms up around his head so he couldn't see anyone and grunt. Loudly. He refused to take the star. He refused to say his line. He refused to do anything except grunt... which made Emma giggle.

Which made the audience roar.

Which made me wish that a large black hole would open up and swallow me whole.

Once order had been restored, he was fine.

Of course, there were only two songs left...

But he sang those two songs with gusto and energy, as if he'd been doing this the entire night.

Afterwards, he high-fived people like he'd just given the performance of the year and was just waiting for his Oscar nomination.

You've got to be kidding me.

The Herdmans ain't got nothing on us....