Primary Pandemonium

I may have mentioned before that I teach the 4 year-old class in primary each Sunday. Since there are 12 kids (at least) in our class and 10 of them are boys whose bodies must be made up of 60% sugar instead of water, the bishop was kind enough to let Rance and I team teach. Rance is like the class bouncer/my bodyguard. I think I also need a little adult supervision. He laughs at me as I tell dubious versions of Bible stories. I can also hear him chortling under his breath while I try to explain things like why Nephi can kill Laban, but we have to be nice, how Mary conceived baby Jesus, and what Heaven looks like. I don't even want to talk about the time I had to tell the story of Ammon chopping off arms.

I have had lots of experience working with children, but this class makes me doubt my acumen. For example, one Sunday we were talking about being nice to our brothers and sisters. Jacob (*Names have been changed to protect the guilty) said he would be nice and not call his sister a "pooh-pooh-head" any more. Of course that caused hysterical giggles, and started a whole chorus of "pee, stinker, booger, yucky-pants, barf-o" comments.

Then, two weeks ago, we had a lesson on missionary work. One sweet little boy said he didn't want to go on a mission. When I asked him why, he got a little misty and said he would miss his mommy too much. Then Connor yanked the curtains, rod and all, off the window and that tender moment was over.

As if I had not scarred enough children already, this Sunday, I took a moment to talk to the kids about our new prophet and to express my gratitude for him. I was hoping to invite the Spirit into our often rowdy and irreverent classroom. Then, Nathan started humming "Follow the Prophet" and before long everyone joined in. At first, I thought this would be a positive development--just like when people in musicals are so moved they burst into spontaneous song, and everyone else is so enthused they join in. Suddenly, someone changed the words to, "Follow the Pattersons." Mob mentality took over, and everyone raised their voices in blasphemous song. In agonies of distress, I tried to shush them. They just got louder. I glanced at the thin curtain dividing my room from the Sunbeams. I can only imagine that Sister Peterson next door thought I was brain-washing all of my students in some strange, Neo-Nazi way. The kids were marching around the room singing louder and louder as my face got redder and redder. Finally, before I was struck by lightening, I got them calmed back down by showing them embarrassing photos of my buckteeth, taken when I was baptized.

Overall, I would have to say that teaching primary is like a microcosm of parenting. You run around in total chaos with no idea what you are doing most of the time. But every once in a while, some angelic little child makes a comment that is so insightful and cherubically innocence, that it is all worth it. For that split second, it is like the heavens part and celestial choirs burst forth in euphoric song. You think you have things well in hand. Then your kids bring you back to earth and remind you that you are, in fact, clueless.