I took Baby Girl B with me to a memorial service this morning. It was an absolutely beautiful day, the kind that gives you hope that winter will come to an end sometime soon. The sun streaming through the church windows warmly embraced the family and friends gathered inside to celebrate the life of a wonderful man. It was a simultaneously sad and joyous event.
I sat in the back row so that I could leave the sanctuary if Baby Girl decided she had had enough. Throughout the opening songs and sharing she was very calm, content to watch all the unfamiliar sights and sounds from my arms. When she first started to get fidgety, I kept her happy by popping Cheerios into her mouth every time she wiggled. When that stopped working, I reached in the diaper bag to give her something to hold.
It was a quiet moment in the service. I handed Baby Girl my wallet, thinking it would be interesting with the zipper and colorful design. She happily took it, turned it over, and stared at the picture of my son on the back.
“BUBBA!” she cried out excitedly as loudly as she could (that’s what she calls her brother). “Bubba, Bubba…BUBBA!”
I guess that wasn’t such a good idea, I told myself, giving an apologetic smile to the people who turned to look our way. I tried to take it away, but Baby Girl proteseted. There was no way I was going to get Bubba away from her quietly. I grabbed my bag and hustled out the thankfully nearby door. As soon as we were outside, Baby Girl was distracted by some flowers and forgot about Bubba, dropping my wallet onto the sidewalk.
Sorry about that, Duey, I thought as I picked up my wallet. But somehow I don’t think he minded. At least he never did when the girls made noises during regular church services. I hope that at the end of my life, my memorial service is just as joyous and full of love as his was.