The terrible twos eternal ~ September 17, 1987

David Heiller

“Dere’s Pastor Judas (Judith),” Malika remarked in a clear voice as we walked down the aisle at church last Sunday.

“Sshh,” Cindy whispered, as we swing into the fifth pew. “You have to talk like this.”

“You have to talk like dis?” Malika answered in her clear voice.

“Sshh,” I tried, “no, like this.”

“Like dis?” she asked in that same voice. “Dere’s Pastor Judas.”

Malika at two: more at home in a tree, than in a pew.

Cindy and I sighed in unison. Malika had wanted to go to church with Noah, her four-year-old brother who can now behave in church relatively well. We knew we had to give her a sporting chance.

Malika squirmed off Mom’s lap, and walked to the far end of the pew. She eyed Mark Johnson carefully. Mark had sat down in the same pew with us, not knowing he would have been better off in a hornet’s nest. Then Malika stood up and grinned at the folks behind us, a pew full of teenagers. Malika squeezed past me and grinned across the aisle to the pews on the right side of the church. I glanced over to see Ann and Shelley Kosloski grinning back. Church hadn’t even started yet and she already knew half the people there.

Church began with Pastor Judith’s pleasant “Good morning.”

“Dere’s Pastor Judas,” Malika repeated, loud enough for the pew behind us to whisper a laugh.

While the congregation sang The Church’s One Foundation, Cindy and I passed Malika back and forth like a human football. We each got to sing the last line of the hymn, spying the words between Mollie’s flying limbs.

“Where’s the food?” Cindy whispered.

“Where’s the food?” Noah, our son, whispered. “Where’s deh food, Dadee?” Malika said, not in a whisper at all.

The pew behind us leaned forward to see what the food was.

I opened two plastic cups, mixed with Wheat Chex and giant pretzels. They seemed like a good choice on the rush to church. But as the church quieted down, our pew filled with the noise of tiny teeth breaking and grinding cereal and pretzels. The noises might not have been heard in any other room, but in the middle of Pastor Judith’s sermon, they sounded like someone cracking nuts.

"See me? I know that this is daddy's radio."

I could hear the kids in the pew behind us, breathing hard through their noses, trying not to laugh. Malika sensed her audience. She carried her cup of cereal down the pew, showing them to Mark. He smiled at her again. She took the hymnals out of their rack, and began to pour the cereal in the empty space, until Cindy reached over quickly and grabbed her arm. Malika dumped the cereal on the floor. The pew behind us swayed, as the kids there fought to hold back their laughter.

After the sermon and offering, the congregation stood for the offertory response. Malika had by now picked up and dropped and picked up the cereal—several times. Then she moved toward me, and tried to squeeze past, toward Ann and Shelley Kosloski. I didn’t dare glance to see if they were still smiling. Instead, I blocked Malika off with my legs. She knew she couldn’t squeeze by, so she returned to Cindy. As we sat down, I landed squarely on her plastic cup and half a dozen Wheat Chex.

In front of us, De Ann Zuk sat calmly with her son, Jonathan, nestled quietly against her shoulder. Jonathan was holding a plastic bag of bubble gum. He quietly worked a blue piece over with his tongue, showing it to Noah, who answered by grinding away on his pretzel. Jonathan Zuk is two years old, and he did not say a peep through church. He maybe was too busy watching Malika.

Ride the horsey, that works for Malika.

Malika squirmed from me to Cindy as we sang the final hymn Lead On, Oh King Eternal. “This is crazy,” I heard Cindy mutter. She lifted Malika onto her shoulders. This was like a march of triumph to her, Jesus riding into Jerusalem on an ass. The kids behind us couldn’t hold back any longer. Their snickers burst out like bubbles. I glanced up at Mollie. She was using Cindy’s head as a drum, and keeping pretty good rhythm with the hymn at that. She was the queen eternal of two-year-olds.

Noah was joining in too. He moved lightly from one foot to the other, in a quick, tip-toe step. “I have to go pee, Dad,” he said.

Church service came to an end finally, mercifully. Malika descended from Cindy’s shoulders triumphantly. We cleaned up the debris, the blankets and books and crumbs that by then had nearly pushed_, Mark Johnson clear off the end of the pew. People filed by us down the aisle, with cheerful hellos. The teenagers ducked out, trying to hide their grins. George Brabec stepped forward to shake my hand. He looked proud of Cindy and me for surviving an hour with Malika in church. Or could it have been a handshake of sympathy, as he recalled church services with his grandson, Jason, who was Malika’s most serious challenger for the Terrible Twos honor?

Cindy and I haven’t decided if we will bring Malika to church again next week, or whether we will wait a year or two.