That's Not Candy!

Here's a fun fact you may not know about your favorite psychologically-damaged housewife: I have a REAL problem with authority.

It's not that I disrespect authority- quite the opposite, in fact. I tend to see anyone with any kind of power over me as larger than life. Teachers, parents, mentors, supervisors, bosses and police officers all take on the charactaristics of gods. In my mind, they are infallable, all-knowing, omnipotent. And it's not just authority that turns me into a meek little ball of inadequacy. Anyone with talent or skill does the same, as does anyone with knowledge or character. In fact, anyone who is "better" than me at anything makes me a nervous wreck. I am constantly worried that one of these people will discover my imperfection. And, if one ever did, I would be absolutely mortified!

*******
Exactly nine years ago today, LG was learning how to trick-or-treat. At thirteen months old, candy and superheroes were his life, and a day dedicated to both were just about more than he could handle. He ran from house to house as quickly as his little legs would carry him and shouted "twickatweet" at the top of his lungs, often before he even rang the bell. Fueled by sugar and excitement, he'd have run until dawn if I'd let him. But Halloween night was unseasonably cold that year, and while I'd dressed LG and the baby as warmly as I could, I decided that half an hour was quite enough trick-or-treating for the evening.

He disagreed.

Back in the warmth of the apartment, I undressed everyone and prepared to settle down for the night. I unwrapped several pieces of candy for LG and snuggled up in the rocking chair with HRH. But LG wasn't having it.

"Mo twickatweet!" he insisted again and again.

"I can't, buddy. Sissy has to go to sleep." But LG wouldn't stop.

Fortunately, I had an idea. I dumped the halloween candy into a mixing bowl and placed it on the floor next to the rocking chair. Then I handed LG his bag. "Trick-or treat to mommy!" I said.

With a scowl, he looked down at the bowl of candy and then back up at me with a what-are-you-trying-to-pull look on his face. But then he smiled, held his bag out to me and said "Twickatweet, mama." I took one of his own candies out of the bowl and dropped it into his bag. LG giggled, ran into his bedroom, jumped up and down on his bed a few times, and came skipping back for more mommy-trick-or-treating.

Over the next few days, trick-or-treat was seriously in vogue in the OCD house. We had twickatweet-milk, twickatweet-apples, twickatweet-wead-a-book, twickatweet-park. Anything and everything LG wanted, he trick-or-treated for.

One evening, the kids and I were all lying on my bedroom floor playing twickatweet-bwocks when LG came up and handed me something. "Twickatweet," he said. I looked down, realized what he had handed me, and immediately turned bright red with embarrassment. Why on Earth had THAT been left on the floor?

"Open, mama," said LG.

"No. I'm not going to open it." I squeaked out.

"Yes. Twickatweet-open-it," he said with a stomp.

"No, honey. I'm not going to open it. It's not candy."

"Yes, mama! Open the candy!" he insisted.

Oh, come on, boy!

"It's not candy!" I said

"What is it?"

"Don't worry about it. It's not candy."

"Yes it is candy!" he howled. "Open the candy!"

"Honey, I promise it's not candy."

"Mama, it's candy. Open it."

"I'm serious! I'm not opening it!"

"What is it, mama?"

Now, even at thirteen months old, I knew my LG. And even at thirteen months old, he had to know everything. If I didn't tell him what was in my hand, he would never believe that it wasn't candy. And, more to the point, he would never leave me alone.

"Fine!" I huffed, and (in a word) I told him what he'd handed me.

"Oh, okay," he said, and he went back to his blocks.

******

That Sunday, I had a meeting with the bishop. I was extremely nervous. Not only did the bishop have authority over me, but he also had the right to speak for the ultimate authority. If I embarrassed myself in front of the bishop, it was one direct-connect phone call to the Lord God Almighty Himself and (BAM) there went my eternal salvation.

I started preparing early that morning, dressing us all in our Sunday best. I packed a bag of books and quiet toys with which LG could entertain himself. I read my scriptures and prayed. I hoped against hope that the afternoon meeting would go off without a hitch. But as the time for my appointment approached, I grew more and more uneasy. How was I going to give the impression that I had my stuff together? How would I avoid the humiliation of having the bishop discover that I had flaws?

I walked into the bishop's office that afternoon in a panic. My husband sat down across from the bishop with HRH on his lap and I sat next to my husband with LG on mine. The bishop extended his hand to my husband and the men said their hello's. Then he reached out to shake my hand and I did the same. Finally, the bishop reached over to little LG. "Would you like to shake, young man?" he asked.

LG looked up from his book to see an open hand in front of his face. "Please, shake it, I thought," hoping against hope that I could make it happen out of sheer determination. But I had no such luck. Confused, LG looked up at the bishop and said "Twickatweet?"

I was mortified. Here my son was, thirteen months old, and he still didn't know how to shake someone's hand. I was a failure as a mother. I was a failure as a Mormon. My husband laughed. My son laughed. My bishop laughed. I imagined them laughing at me and tried not to cry. But bishop didn't mind. He reached into his desk and pulled out something shiny, which he placed in LG's tiny hand. LG thanked him (thank goodness), looked at the little treasure in his hand, and made a concerned face. "I can't have it," he said.

ARGHHH!!! Now, he was being ungrateful! I wanted to run from the building in shame.

"You can have the candy," his daddy said.

LG shook his head solemnly and laid the candy back down on the desk. "No," he said, "That's not a candy. That's a condom!"

oh.

no.

he.

didn't.

Did my one-year-old just tell the bishop that he didn't want a prophylactic!?

I buried my face in my hands and waited for the excommunication papers. But they didn't come. Instead of being angry and judgmental, the bishop was...

...well, he was laughing!

In fact, he was laughing so hard that he could hardly breathe. He didn't think my child was posessed; he thought he was hilarious! He looked at me, holding my thirteen month old baby. He looked at my husband, holding our one month old baby. And he said to my husband "Well, if it's a condom, I guess I ought to give it to you!"

******

As it turns out, bishops aren't the perfect, judgement-passing machines that I'd imagined. Neither, I suppose, are teachers, bosses or police officers. They're all people just like me, trying to do the best that they can. Whatever horrible mistakes I think I've made, most people can relate to it. That's the beauty of the human condition-nobody is "better" than anyone else because we've all failed at something. Of course, that doesn't mean that I no longer pee my pants whenever I have to talk to somebody awesome. It just means that if I DO pee my pants, they'll probably laugh.

And, somehow, that's comforting.