Ho-Hos

At church last Sunday, Jacob had a Ho-Ho dilemma. We hadn't been to church in months, largely because of the various bouts of pneumonia. Jacob loves the music, but he also finds the service pretty long and stifling. He is, after all, a dynamo, and there is much quiet reading, talking, and reflection. On the drive there, Jacob and I talked about Sunday school as an alternative to hanging in the service. He's never gone to SS alone before, but I thought, hey, he's becoming such a good going-to-school-and-being-grown-up boy, he might like to chill for an hour in Sunday school.

Sunday school is different than when I was a kid: then, there was wrist slapping, memorization, and hour-long sessions with paper Jesus and donkeys on a felt board. Now, the lessons are about 10 minutes and the coloring, playing with cars and play-doh, and having a snack lasts the other 50. Not too bad for a seasoned school veteran, eh? He agreed. A couple of times I stepped out and listened at the door to make sure there was no wailing or gnashing of teeth, and everything seemed okay.

Towards the end of the service, when about three songs in a row are sung, I decided to go Jacob to see if he wanted to come sing. When I walked in the door, a vision of horror appeared before my eyes. There sat my no-caffeine, no chocolate, virtually-no-sweets boy with a Ho-Ho clutched in his hand and a plateful of Pringles. When he saw me, he panicked slightly (he knew that was way outside the realm of normal food for him) looking around as if he might hide the Ho-Ho, but then he was buttressed by Dana's slightly maladapted son bellowing for his second one. Jacob gazed down at the half-consumed roll of sugary-cream wrapped in chocolate cake and waxy icing and said, "I'm having a Ho-Ho!" and smiled a post-injection, "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds"-smile.

"Yes, I see that." My first thought, of course, had been "Who the hell feeds a 4-year-old a Ho-Ho and Pringles for a snack? Healthy. Nutritious." but I figured the enticement of seeing Dana (who loves him and whom he loves) and singing would draw him away from even the lure of the profoundly seductive Ho-Ho in his hand. "We're going to sing. If you want to come into church with me, you can, but the Ho-Ho can't go into the service." LONG pause. Staring at the Ho-Ho. "How many more minutes 'til church is over?" "10 minutes." Another LONG pause. Look at Ho-Ho. Look at Mommy. Look at Ho-Ho. Look at Mommy. Try to leave Ho-Ho. Retreat. Grab Mommy by the arm. "You stay here with me, Mommy, while I eat my Ho-Ho." "No, you have to choose. I'm going to go sing. You can stay here and eat your Ho-Ho, or come with me." He wrenched his eyes from me and then drown himself in the sugary, swirly wonder of the Ho-Ho. "I'll stay," he said, "only TEN MINUTES, okay, Mommy?"

Off I went. All was good, though I figured he could probably hear his favorite songs getting sung without him. When I went into the SS room to pick him up, however, all hell--backed by the power of a sugar and chocolate rush--was breaking loose. Jacob was absolutely devastated that he had missed one of his favorite things to get one of his other favorite things, and he was mad. He'd had to choose between a good and a good, and that meant one of the goods had been lost to him. He sobbed the whole way home. "I want to make a different decision! I want to go into church!" (keep in mind that this is in the car seat 15 miles from the parking lot) "I made a wrong choice! Oh, I made a wrong choice!" He was cranky all afternoon.

This, friends, is the Ho-Ho dilemma. He'll have them over and over in life. And, while sometimes painful, they are, perhaps, far more pleasant than the choice between two evils. Like a presidential election. Still, there is a kind of agony, even while you are conscious of the wonders of what you get. This boy is growing up, though, and new levels of maturity are evident everyday.