When we were teensy children, I remember Conference being a super big deal. It was always memorable, be it good or bad. I would spread out my orange blanket on the ground in the living room and fight over floor space with Rose. We'd start, so excited that we got out of Sunday clothes, and ever steadily fight to stay awake. Halfway through we'd beg mom and dad to let us watch it down in their room, pleading with promises that we would be good and watch the prophet. This wish, when granted, usually turned into a raucous, laughter-filled, pillow fight with Alex as the ringleader. Of course, he doubled as the one to tell us to behave so he could claim being in charge on both ends. Those were the days.
Things evolved, of course, as we grew up. We got better at listening, betterish at taking notes when applicable. Ben and Erin started the Conference Waffle tradition and that regulated things quite a bit. And then, one day, we were all magically grown up and there was another generation of big people instructing a new generation of little people in the art of conference- watching. We were well-mannered, and dilligent, and attentive, and mature.
That, my friends, was short-lived.
I realized this last week during the Sunday morning session of conference. Mark and Amy had come the night before so they could make us waffles on Sunday morning, Ben being in North Carolina and the Trents being industrious and service oriented. We had breakfast on Sunday and then went downstairs to the living room so that Amy could take a nap. Of course, she took Mark with her to snuggle like the pukerific newlyweds they are. Of course, I came along because Mark and I were in the middle of a conversation. So there we were, on the couch, not bothering to get ready. Bekah came over to watch with us, and she ended up down there in a chair by my end of the couch. Mom, of course, sat across the room, seeming to sense with her mother's intuition, that she would need to tune us out.
And so conference began, the new generation of adults at one end of the room. And we began in a well-mannered and dilligent and attentive and mature fashion, albeit a pajamified fashion. And then Bekah and I began to cross into each other's territory. Which started off as a companionable sisterly thing and ended with us playing a game of "Draw Something" on each other's ankles.
Mark and Amy had to see, of course, so there ended up being a lot of stretching my ankles across people and holding some double awkward hands positions while people laughed at Bekah's message. ("Moisturize Me!" I guess I should use more lotion.) Bekah's ankle started out with a dandelion looking thing and ended up as a clover with a Who Village on top, complete with captions and labels. All we needed was the Elephant. It was almost as good as Pillow fights downstairs, even without the urgent warning which is strewn throughout my childhood memories, "CRAP! Dad's coming!"
I promise we listened to the Prophet.
But it was a good thing Mom tuned us out. Also a sign that maybe we are more kids than ever now that we are grown-ups. Cause she doesn't even try to make us behave anymore. And then Matthew came home and we shaped right up. We had to be big kids again. Good examples and all that. I was amazed to realize how quickly we can transition. Maybe we're all just faking it for the kids.
Moral of the story, kids might be better at encouraging good behavior in us than we are at encouraging good behavior in them. Matthew is more awesome than I knew.
But I really wanted to finish drawing Horton on my sister's leg. Dang!