Germs in the nursery... and other scary stories!

Ah... ah... ah... CHOO!

A toddler, somewhere between the age of 18 months and 3 years, has just released a giant spray of virus laden, oober-goobered snot all over me, herself and the table holding our illustrious snack items.

I reach for the kleenex to wipe her nose, then grab some hand sanitizer in an attempt to de-germ myself, while throwing away all the snacks that have just been duly contaminated.

Welcome to the church nursery.

There are rules about not sending children into the nursery with contagious diseases, but the fact is, it's hard to know for sure whether the kids are contagious, and I understand the desperation that young mothers feel in wanting just one or two hours in a week of adult time.

Ergo, contagion happens pretty much every week.

I used to be rather germ-o-phobic. I don't know anyone who especially enjoys getting sick, but I especially hated it... and went to great lengths to avoid those especially germ-fest traditions, like indiscriminately shaking hands with about 473 people... and then eating little pieces of white bread from a tray which has been passed through the hands of roughly 9,694 people... without ever being washed.

Lately, however, it just doesn't seem to matter so much. I've come to set my watch by that 48-72 hour time frame in which a virus merrily incubates in its host's system. It starts at 10:15 Sunday morning... and just like clockwork, generally hits by Tuesday afternoon... you know... the scratchy throat and that headache that starts at the nape of your neck and works it's way over the top of your head... into your eyeballs... up through your burning sinuses, around your entire body... eventually exiting back out through your bleary, red-streaked eyeballs, eventually settling in your earlobes.

Ugh...

Every Tuesday, I dutifully take 5,000 mg. of vitamin C and crawl into bed early, hoping to simply sleep it off.

Usually, it works.

This isn't my first time in the nursery, not by a long shot. In fact, I think I've had almost every calling a woman can hold in a regular ward... and some that you can't. For instance, I was the pianist in priesthood meeting one year. It was an act of mercy, really. Without a piano, the men sounded something like sacrificial bullocks being led to the slaughter. It was a frightening noise... one which inspired a primal urge to run for the exits... so, when they asked (begged) me to take just a few minutes to play for them, I happily agreed. Voila! A vast improvement! The whole ward, every class room within ear shot, was immensely grateful.

But, back to the nursery.

I've spent my own fair share of time in the nursery, chasing down my own naked children, reapplying their diaper, shirt and shorts, and trying to figure out a way to make them understand that streaking through the Mormon church just wasn't, generally, an accepted practice... at least, not on the Sabbath.

I was the nursery leader when my own children were babies... a situation of supremely cruel and unusual punishment. To any future bishops out there, NEVER call young mothers to the nursery. It is just utterly sadistic!

Now that I'm a "Nana", however, and my children are grown, I usually enjoy it... pretty much. I mean, where else in the church can you disappear from general church existence - into an environment where you get to wiggle all you want, play with toys, take your shoes and socks off at will, and spend 2 hours dispensing (and merrily eating) snacks?

I am the "snack lady"... and we buy our own snacks!

These are YUMMY snacks! Fruit snacks and mini pop tarts (a tiny, delectable frosted cracker-like invention). There are gummy life savers... (can I just say "YUM!") as well as the more traditional cheesy "whales", Nilla wafers and "gold fish"... which is a pretty funny concept. Ask a toddler if he wants to eat "Goldfish" and he will immediately look at you as though you've lost your mind. Show him the cheesy crackers and he's your friend for life!

Most people ask to be reimbursed for the nursery snacks, but not us. This way we can feel free to eat all we want, right along with the kids, and not feel the least bit guilty for "embezzlement" of church "property".

Snacks are a glorious part of the nursery calling, a time of joy and bonding when we absolutely stuff ourselves with tasty treats. However, snacks aren't the only highlight. We also play with toys... lots and lots of toys. Occasionally, we delve into the sticky adventures of once multi-colored play-doh that has been mushed all together until it's a single color of generally nauseating purple-gray. The kids don't care. All they want is to make cookies out of it and insist that you, their teacher, "eats" it with the greatest show of thanksgiving.

Always, we pull out balloons of varying colors, which we then blow up and gleefully kick around the room. At first, we filled these up with helium and long festive ribbons, just for a little bit of extra fun... however, it sort of had a little too much feeling of Carnival Hour... even for someone like myself... so I, repentantly, left the helium home after the first month. The children really didn't seem to mind either way.

At 11:30, we clean up the toys and I reach into my "bag of tricks" to see if I have any special treats... which, of course, I always do. The kids gather around, trying to snag as many of the delectable morsels as possible. Sometimes, I count them out, placing them into their hands: "One, two, three, four, five!", and other times, I stuff them into their pockets... this slows them down... just a hair... long enough for me to make sure that everyone has gotten their fair share.

About 25 minutes before church ends, we start into "flying time". The diaper-laden toddlers all RUN to the table, climb up, and Kirk takes their hands, swinging them high in the air, around the room (trying not to conk any stray kids in the head) and finally lets them "come in for a landing" on the top of the slide, after which they rush to the floor, jump up, and RUN back to the "runway", hoping to take off again, as quickly as they can manage to wiggle and/or push their way in front of the next child. This requires a great deal of concentration to make sure that everyone gets a fair and equal share of turns, proving that, to be a nursery leader, you must possess at least a few live brain cells... contrary to common assumption.

"Flying" is a time of great excitement in the nursery! In fact, we frequently have to remind the children to get off the tables during snack "hour" because it just isn't time to go flying yet. This is also a rare ritual of "healthy worship", being that it's the only appreciable exercise that Kirk gets each week...

Finally, for the last 15 minutes, we spread a quilt on the floor and every one sits down (in theory, anyway) for singing time. The songs are awesome of course... you have the standards: "Itsy-bitsy spider" and "Popcorn", "Old McDonald", "Happy and you know it", and then you have my own personal favs.

"5 little monkeys jumping on the bed.
One fell off and broke his head!
Momma called the doctor and the doctor said:
'No more monkeys jumping on the bed'."

and...

"3 little monkeys swinging from a tree,
teasing mister crocodile: 'Can't catch me!'
Along comes mister crocodile, quiet as can be...
SNAPS that monkey out of that tree!"

The children love to follow along with the hand movements, clapping their hands, slapping their legs, stomping their feet or shouting hurray, with a fist bump to the sky. Good times!

Finally, noon rolls around and the parents come to gather their small fry to take them home... where they scratch their heads in wonder as to why, when the rest of the family is famished after church, their toddler isn't hungry at all. :o)

Kirk gathers up the fan, I gather up my "bag of tricks" and we head home as well. Once there, I set my proverbial alarm for 48-72 hours, knowing that's it's inevitable. I'm going to get sick. It happens every week. 4 times a month, sometimes 5, a new virus finds it's way into the Kearney nursery, excitedly waiting to meet it's newest host... me.

I'm not complaining, really... it's far better than having to sit perfectly still (something I've never been good at) and pretend that it's comfortable to act like a grown up for a bun-numbing 3 solid hours.

So... until next week, when we meet again... just pass me the vitamin C and a giant handful of those cheesy crackers... and I'll climb into bed with a smile on my face.