Is church in pajamas better than church in pantyhose?

By Shelah Miner

I always look forward to the first weekends of April and October. In my mind, General Conference weekend is a time when I sleep in late, eat good food, get religious instruction from the comfort of my couch, doze between (but never during) sessions, take notes, wear pajamas instead of pantyhose, and end the weekend physically and spiritually fed and full of resolve to get me through the next six months.

It’s Sunday night now, and I feel more frazzled than fed. We tried our best to watch Conference, really we did. My kids are little (ages 8-2) so on Saturday I decided not to be too dictatorial about forcing them to watch. But we were all bathed and dressed and positioned in front of the television at 11am. The familiar strains of the organ filled the house and we listened eagerly as Neil Andersen was called to the Quorum of the Twelve. The positive streak lasted through talks by Elder Hales and Sister Lifferth, but 40 minutes was as long as we could sustain our run. Our toddler needed a nap, the big kids wanted lunch, we were out of milk, and I needed to make a trip to the bank before it closed. If I recorded the rest of the session and ran errands, I reasoned, I’d still have time to catch up before the afternoon session started.

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