Almost my entire two hours were spent being buddies with a new nursery child, Margaret, who wanted her Momma and her Daddy. I went through so many Kleenex, wiping her little tears and her running nose that I lost track. This is her mom's blog, which she neglects but there are photos of Margaret in her younger years. Well, she isn't even two years old so it would be her "younger year." This is a blog her mom co-authors. This is her dad's blog. They are kind of sassy but definitely fun.
Margaret looks like an angel. Her mother is one of the fashion guru's of the ward and little Margaret was dressed to take over that role. She has great big blue eyes and her hair was in little piggy-tales. But Margaret was heartbroken. Margaret wanted to be on the other side of the door. Every time someone came in the door she remembered and cried.
We played with play dough, Margaret and I. She tried to eat the play dough "ice cream cone" several times and then removed the goo, which I tried to get before she smashed it back into the "ice cream." I mostly failed. She threw the snakes I made for her so many times that the carpet color has changed from blueish to turquoise-snake color. She liked snack-time and after she drank her water she took the empty paper cup to the garbage. Of course she also threw the play dough and a spoon away. Her mother is the tidy guru and Margaret is practicing to take over the role.
My whole two hours was spent with Margaret, leaving the seventy-year-old saint to take care of bathroom duties--one child went commando for the second hour as we didn't have a new "pull-up." The seventy-year-old saint taught the lesson. She sang the songs. She said the prayers. She fixed snack. She did it all. Rewards, I tell you. She deserves rewards.
The crowning moment for me was when I was showing Margaret a story book. "Look at the frog," I said.
"Can you see the little boy's doggie?"
"What is that?" It was a cow.
"Daddy," Margaret said.
"No, not Daddy, look right there, what is that?" I pointed to the huge black and white cow. "
Daddy," she said.
Everything I pointed out she didn't know what it was until I pointed at Jesus. "Who is that?" I asked.
"Jesus," she said as if she has been seeing him every day of her life.
And then I wondered. Maybe she still remembers him. Maybe she still sees him.
Thank you, Margaret for being a fashion guru, for being tidy, for loving your Mom and Dad so much that you cried and cried. But mostly, Margaret, thank you for knowing who is the most important.
And a little child shall lead them.