Adventures in Mothering, Sunday Edition

Sundays are an adventure.
Brad has Church meetings beginning at 6 am, running until at least early afternoon.  So I'm on my own to get six kids out the door, in Sunday attire, by 8:45.
Luckily, my older kids have been conditioned to help get the younger kids ready for Church.  Not without a little "persuasion," but they do help.  My big boys iron their own shirts and pants, Lily gets herself completely ready, then they are each given an assignment--get the diaper bag ready or help feed and dress a younger brother (whoever dresses Hyrum is awarded the bronze star for valor in battle).
Valentine's Day was just like any other Sunday morning, with an added complication--I teach the Relief Society lesson once a month.  I had prepared the lesson during the week and knew what I needed to take.  This lesson was slightly complicated by the fact that I needed to take my laptop, the projector, and a few extension cords for part of the presentation. (For those of you who have taught women, you realize that this isn't that unusual.  Tucker, who was my trusty A/V assistant, couldn't quite appreciate the necessity of such things.  But he did help me.)  So, I needed to be at the Church no later than 8:30 to set everything up.  After a bonus trip home for a few extra cords, all was set up and ready.  Now for Sacrament Meeting.
It's always a fight to see which families sit by us--no one wants to, I'd venture, except for the MacDonalds.  Larry enjoys riling up my little boys and then see how long it takes me to get them back in control.  Since Brad is on the stand doing his thing and Tucker and Ben help with the sacrament, it's up to me to silence the four little ones.  This isn't too hard, until Tuck and  Ben make it back to our pew, then the baby has to be taken out and fed (nursing cover, again!), Hyrum always has to come with me and jump on the couches and flick the lights in the mothers' lounge, then it's back to the chapel where three fights have broken out in my absence over who wanted to look at the book about babies or who was touching who.  A few pregnant snaps of the fingers usually get everyone back in line fairly quickly--these snaps can be heard all the way on the stand by Bishop, but it's much quicker than talking, and, frankly, way more effective.  As the final speaker was tying up their talk, Hyrum started doing the potty dance, whispering loudly that he needed to go potty.  I was busy with the burping and puking baby, so I assigned potty duty to Ben, who was more than happy to leave the meeting for the latrine.  The closing song was about over and the person giving the prayer was approaching the pulpit when the boys made it back.  Hyrum refused to be quiet, so what could a mother do?  I clamped my hand over his protesting mouth, attempting to keep him quiet for the last 24 seconds of the meeting.  As I did so, my hand brushed his backside, and I felt the telltale signs that the bathroom experience had been less than successful.  Great.  Wet pants.  Now what?
It wasn't an "I-was-too-late-for-the-toilet" problem. It was an "I-overshot-the-toilet-and-landed-on-my-pants" problem.  Either way he was soaked.  Either way, I was in a pickle--wet toddler and Relief Society lesson in 4 minutes. I handed my baby off to a good friend who had had the misfortune of sitting in front of us, sent the rest off to their quorums and classes, and I sped home to help Hyrum change.  I must admit that I was less than kind about this whole predicament--rushing him in the house, rushing to find a pull-up, rushing to find a second pair of Sunday appropriate pants.  As I changed him, I blurted out, "I'm so mad I think I'm going to cry."  My little son with the tenderest heart and purest intentions, set his lip to quivering and pleaded, "Pweese don't cry, Mommy.  Pweeese."  And we were back at the Church.
Relief Society had started, and I hadn't had two minutes to check my computer, review my material or even sit still and enjoy the peace of the meeting.  Heck, I didn't even know where Eve was.  I stood up, still crazed from the trial of the last few minutes.  I relayed to the women what had just transpired and then I tried to compose myself enough to talk about Christ.  My mind was racing for the first 5 minutes or so, then I think everything went okay.
After Church, I took a nap.  A nap so deep that when our home teacher stopped by for a quick lesson, Brad couldn't rouse me.
I wonder why.
Am I the only one who has Sundays like this?  Sometimes it feels like it. . . .