Nasty Habits

I am a remnant of one of those families that sits on the back row during sacrament meeting. You know them; they are a staple of every L.D.S. ward. They consist of 3-7 rambunctious kids that create a multitude of distractions to every other family in the meeting. You know them by the crunch of snacks, the loud crackle of wrappers being opened, or the occasional screaming outburst. The parents of these families come to the meeting equipped with a variety of plastic sandwich bags filled with goodies, coloring books, and toys to attempt to keep the attention of their kids for one hour. In spite of the preventative measures these good intentioned parents take to minimize the crying and outbursts of their excitable and easily bored children, there will inevitably be one or two times when an ear-piercing scream echoes through the acoustically well built chapel. It is a screech that is so intense and high-pitched, it penetrates through the bones, to the very soul. It has the ability to wake the dead, or at least the ones sleeping through the meeting. The child's body transforms into the consistency of jelly as it is dragged out into the hall. The lucky parent who remains in the meeting with their other kids (who have now taken to rolling their bodies under the pews in front of them or running up and down the aisles) will slowly ungrit their clenched teeth as the sounds of the their shrieking child retreats into the bathrooms outside.

When the meeting is over, you can spot the exact pew these families sat in by the Cheerios crumbled on the floor and the hard candy wrappers strewn all over the cushioned bench and floor. I was the one who took a liking to stuffing my wrappers into the deep corners of the hymnal holders, then smiled when I came back the next week to find my stash of wrappers still there.

I am a remnant of one of those families, and I still have those habits. I always bring a snack with me to church. Last week it was Bugles and Twizzler Nibs. This week it was fruit snacks and Sour Patch Kids. It doesn't help that there are vending machines outside the chapel in my singles ward. I put the coins into the machine, and wonder if I should be feeling guilty about buying something on a Sunday. "At least I'm not making someone work," I think, justifying my purchase with the qualifications my family has put on Sunday purchasing. "If we don't make someone work, we're not sinning," is our motto. I also leave the meeting several times to "get a drink from the fountain." Mostly it is just my boredom setting in (another habit retained from those days as a kid). I could sit through hours of class every day in college, but one hour of sacrament meeting seems to make my mind wander and feet tap nervously before the opening hymn has even ended.

The worst habit (but clearly most satisfying) I started from those days was thumb-sucking. My mom discovered that my thumb held infinite interest to me, that it held my attention captive and thus my voice quiet. In a moment of problem solving genius, she heavily encouraged thumb-sucking during sacrament meeting. It worked, and I was quiet. The years went by and my thumb-sucking became more intense and embarrassing, particularly when the habit gravitated to events not associated with shutting up (socially reputable situations like family parties and having influential company over at the house) when I would refuse to pull out the thumb to have conversations or even say hi. Several failed attempts at anti-nail biting and thumb-sucking concoctions later, I was finally offered anything, ANYTHING that I wanted, if I would just give up that nasty habit. The possibilities to my 9-year old mind were endless. I took several days imagining the possibilities. "$15 is what I want," I finally told my mother, and when she readily agreed, I realized that I had the upper hand here. What was I thinking? I could have anything. I pulled out my shrewd bargaining skills. "No, no! I want...$20, AND A KITE!"

The deal was sealed, and the habit eventually stopped. But not without it's devastating dental effects. My teeth were ruined, with one tooth in particular suffering the worst effects. Having born the pressure of the thumb for many years, it gradually gave way and eased far into my gums, higher and more prominent than my other teeth. It was very Dracula-esque. A few thousand dollars and a few years of metal were able to cure years of my thumb-sucking bad habits, but the other ones may be harder to cure.

Before and Afters: