Our Primary Program included screams. Not on purpose. Not the screams of overtired Sunbeams that have been on their best behavior for too long. Not the screams of nursery children that were aggravated by the extra time in Sacrament Meeting. All screams were courtesy of The Dude.
Not that I blame him. If I had gotten my hand smooshed as the motorized podium lowered to accommodate my friend as he recited his line in the program, I think I would have screamed, too. If my mother kind of just hovered for a bit because she wasn't really sure how bad it was, how to abandon her class on the stand, and how to exit gracefully, I might have been upset, too. If my hand looked swollen and purple and alien (and I were nearly 4 years old), howling would definitely be in order.
But the worst part was avoided entirely. The true tragedy would have been if the Dude had not been able to give his little talk that he had worked on for the past couple weeks. After he had calmed down a bit, he declared his intentions of giving his talk. A sympathetic counselor inserted him as soon as he returned, and he clearly wowed everyone in the congregation with his resilience and vocabulary.
By the time we got home, the purple had faded to pink and was completely forgotten. That's more than can be said for his latest Primary mishap. He has a lovely bruise on his cheek from a run-in with a bench.
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