Church

Hearing a grunt, I quickly turn and pry my autistic six year old's sticky fingers off the face of the man sitting behind our family.  I quickly apologize and turn back toward the speaker.  At least I think the woman at the podium is speaking.  In all honesty I haven't heard a word spoken in church since my third child was born.  I have decided my sole purpose in attending church is to allow other members of the congregation to exercise sympathy and patience.  For example, the man vigorously rubbing his nose behind us has just learned a valuable lesson; don't be late.  Usually families steer clear of the benches surrounding us, but our chapel fills up rather quickly each Sunday.  I have noticed things changing recently though.  Our section seems to be extra full lately.  It appears that we have been surrounded by large families with small children.  I think the secret is out.  Sitting next to us makes their kids look like angels.  Our congregation has been rather considerate with us.  After three years I have even gotten used to the abundance of sympathy pats as I walk through the hallways between classes.  To fill the void of time, I look across the aisle and see that first time mom, pulling out her bib to protect her daughter's pristine dress as she feeds the toddler cheerios one at a time.  I glance over at my son and see that his pants and shirt are covered with a thin layer of (hopefully) peanut butter.  I swear he was clean when I put his jacket on this morning, but somewhere between the garage door and the church parking lot there must be a secret stash.  I shudder to think of the possibilities.