Child Theology

Hubby was reading his bible and the study book that his men's discipleship group is going through when I came downstairs after a brief nap.  (I might have slept more than Small Fry, but that's really neither here nor there.)

He cocked his head and looked at me.  Crap.  I know that look.  He's about to ask a difficult question.

Sure enough, I'm right.  "Why does God make it so hard to reach him?"

I turned from lighting some tealight candles.  "Well, perhaps it's not God who makes it so hard, but us."

"Why is God so far away, then?"

"Same thing...maybe we're the ones who are far away, not God."

He sighs.  It's a few minutes before he asks his next question.

"Why is God so insistent on not letting us use the sense we most rely on--sight--to know that he's there?  Everything depends on our sight for us.  Or for men, at least."  I opened my mouth, then closed it as he went on.  "I don't mean trees and stuff."

"Maybe to prove to us that we don't have to see him to know he's there," I said, thinking of my best friend JJ, who has to take darn near everything on faith, and without sight.

"Then why didn't he make us all blind?"

I throw up my hands in frustration.  "I don't have answers to these questions!"

"I know you don't," he says, backing off.  "It's just that people worshipped idols because it was easy to remember to do so, because you could always see them.  And yet, we're ordered not to.  Why does it have to be on faith?  Why can't he show us himself?  Why is it that we can only see his back, like Moses?"  He pauses.  "That must have been some butt."

We both fall silent.

Several minutes later, he says something.  "Maybe this is my answer."

I look over, and Small Fry is sitting next to the end of the couch, reaching up her little hand and trying to match it to Hubby's, where it's hanging off the arm of the couch.  She giggles up at him, and stretches her fingers, trying to make the size of her hand match his.  She can't, but that doesn't discourage her from pressing her hand against his, from taking delight in the fact that his hand is bigger than hers.  And that, no matter how many times she tries, his hand is always bigger.

Perhaps, I theorized, this is the relationship God wants to have with his children.

Most idols aren't bigger than us (Nebuchadnezzer's 90-foot-tall statue notwithstanding).  Idols don't press back and tickle fingers and they're not warm to the touch.

Right there, in my living room, THAT's what God wants.  For us to reach out our hand to his, knowing that his is bigger.  Just like Unca D's is bigger than Small Fry's, and that ultimately equates to how Unca D can't be messed with.  How Unca D can flick the monsters and giants on the nose or the forehead, and they run away.  (Auntie J doesn't do this nearly as well, it seems.)

I yuv Unca D.

How big of a hand does God have to have, in order for us to have the security that our heavenly father has things under control?  Shaq's hand is bigger than mine, but I don't know that I'd trust my life to Shaq.  My basketball game, maybe.  But my life?

God's hand has to be bigger.  It has to be all-encompassing.  It's the hand that the world spun out of.

It's too big to be contained by our small world, our small minds.

But just big enough to hold our hand in his when we need it.

Bedtime Blues

It's been one of those evenings where I spend most of my time clockwatching (when I can) and longing for bedtime.  Post-vacation re-entry into normal home life (as normal as it gets for us) is difficult on the little people who live here.  And it was showing, in fine form, tonight.

At 8:15p, I've gotten the kids into bed.  I've put the sheet back on Small Fry's toddler bed, which she took off (and put away in the right spot!) during naptime.  We say prayers.  I tuck them in.  Requisite hugs and kisses.  Hug and kiss for Medium Fry's dog (not duckie, oddly enough).  Repeat kiss for Small Fry, because she's sure I didn't give her one.  Hugs and kisses for Large Fry (and her dog), after she tells me a fantastical story about how all five of us were in a box, and as soon as we got out, we cwracked, and then Risropher Robin and Pooh and Piglet came along, and they stepped on us, and they cwracked us again.  She tells me, very solemnly, that her bedspread is Shamu, and she's going to sleep right here on Shamu.  I say this sounds like a grand plan.

I go back downstairs, relieved that they're all in bed and it will be quiet enough now for me to hear myself think.  Or not think, as the case may be.  I'm too tired to think much.

I pop in a DVD of my own and start watching.  About half an hour after I came back downstairs, I'm hearing whimpering and crying through the twins' monitor.  I call upstairs for Small Fry to be quiet.  Two minutes later, I'm climbing the stairs.

"Why are you crying?"  I note with very little amusement that the little sneaky one has gotten out of bed to get my two-foot-tall Pooh bear and bring him into bed with her.

"I want to syeep in youwr bed."

"You can't sleep in my bed.  You need to sleep in your bed."

"I want yew to yay down in youwr bed."

"It's not time for me to go to bed yet.  I'll lay down in my bed when it's bedtime."  I pause, knowing that my big Pooh has been scawwy in the past.  "Did you get out of bed to get Pooh?"

Small Fry nods.

"You're not supposed to get out of bed," I remind her gently.  "Do you want Pooh to stay with you?"

She nods again.

I tuck her and Pooh in, and turn to leave.  Small Fry starts whimpering.  "What?"

"I want dem."  She points to the two canvas boxes that hold her stuffed animals.

I look down and see her big piggy and her little piggy in there.  "You want your piggies?"

"No.  I want dat."

"You want the doggie?"

"Yes."

I tuck the doggie in beside Pooh, tell Small Fry goodnight, and move to head downstairs.

"Auntie J?"

"What do you need, Large Fry?"

"Shamu and I are cold.  We need a blanket.  Can you get one?"

I couldn't help myself; I had to smile.  If she'd just lay under her comforter, she wouldn't be cold.  But since that's Shamu, she won't, so I don't even bother suggesting it.  I pick up two of the other blankets and cover up her and "Shamu."

I'm back downstairs another ten minutes, and Small Fry is whimpering and fussing again.  Once again, I head back upstairs.

"What?  Why are you crying?"

"I want to syeep in youwr bed."

"You can't sleep in my bed.  You need to sleep in yours."

She cries a little harder.  "But I want to syeep in youwr bed!"

"You can't sleep in my bed.  No one is in my bed.  I'm not going to bed now.  You need to sleep in yours," I tell her firmly.  She kinda nods.  "Go to sleep," I say, a bit more gently.  Rustling from Medium Fry's bed seems to indicate she wasn't asleep like I thought she was.

I'm turning to leave (again), when I hear do do do do do coming from Medium Fry, remarkably clear around the thumb in her mouth.  She's bouncing her doggie along in a hop in time with her little song.  I went over and tapped her shoulder.  "No playing!  Go to sleep."  She tucked Duckie over her ear and settled down.

I'm back downstairs...I'm still hearing the occasional, tell-tale "I'm still awake" noises, but nobody's crying.  Thank goodness.

Bedtime isn't usually this entertaining....

Supper Wars

So.

It's been one of those nights.

I can't say I honestly slaved over dinner, because dinner was a rotisserie chicken, green beans, and Uncle Ben's Spanish rice (the ready-rice version).  Total prep time was about 30 minutes...and that included the run to the store.

There is not a thing on their plates that my kids don't like.

I even put shredded cheese on top of the Spanish rice.

Medium Fry eats without complaint.

However, I have to start prompting the other two to actually take bites.

Finally, I resort to pulling Unca D away from his phone call, because my patience is in short supply, is about half a second from fizzling out completely, and he's the one with the I Will Be Obeyed voice.

Medium Fry gets a popsicle after we convince her to stop chasing the cats to share her love for them.  In extreme methods, like full-body hugs and forced scritches when the cat wants to be left alone.

After much requesting, cajoling, and threatening, Large Fry finally finishes her food.

"Can I finish my food?"

"You did finish your food.  Good for you," Hubby says.

"Can I have juice?"

"Yes."

"Can I have a popsicle?"

"Yes, you can have a popsicle."

"Can I pound?"

I can't see Hubby's face, but I know I'm smiling, so he's gotta be.  I can see them bump fists out of the corner of my eye.

It cracks me up that he taught them to do this, and now the girls ask to "pound" whenever they think they've done something that's really good.

The things I miss...

...when I have to stay home and work like a fiend, and Hubby takes the kids out for lunch.


Hubby: You're a doofus!

Medium Fry: You're a doofus!

Hubby: You're a doofus!

Medium Fry: You're a doofus!

Hubby: You're a doofus!

Medium Fry: You're a doofus!

Hubby: You're a doofus!

Medium Fry: You're a doofus!

Hubby: I can't be a doofus! I'm too cute.

Medium Fry: Yeah, you're right. *pause* I like your hair!

Conversations. Yet again.

Just to prove that we do not have a boring life, I offer these vignettes from the last ten minutes:


Hubby: Please don't send me to Michigan! I'd rather go to Africa!  [Michigan is sort of a death knell if you're a Buckeye fan.  And Hubby is.]

Me (from downstairs bath): I'd rather go to Michigan!

~~~~~~~~

Hubby (to the kids, who had infiltrated the kitchen, following him to the bathroom): Out! Out out out out out out out! And, in case you didn't hear me, OUT!

Fries: *giggling as they retreated to the living room*

Things No One Ever Told Me About Parenthood

~That just pulling into the driveway and seeing my kids happily playing in the yard is enough to move me to tears.

~That my heart would break when my kids are sick, wishing for all the world I could take the illness from them.

~That it's possible for the annoyance of repeated calling of my name to instantly disappear when I finally acknowledge the child attempting to get my attention...and my little girl grins at me and say, "I yuv yew!"

~That it's really hard to try to be straight-faced and accept the apology of your middlest when her tears over the discipline received also means that her nose has run, she's swiped her hand up her face, and she now has a booger in the middle of her forehead as she hiccup-ing-ly offers the apology.

~That what I really need is a gavel in my downstairs bath, because there are days that I'll dispense judgment from that room every time I need it.

~That I won't be able to read a book, cover to cover, without interruption...ever again.

~That I'll be lucky if I can read two pages, snuck in the bathroom, before the next crisis breaks out.

~That it's possible to have a heart so full you're surprised your chest hasn't exploded open.

~That watching nature vs. nurture is fascinating, as my middlest carefully pushes in all the buttons on her cup lid before drinking...just like I do.

~That snuggles in bed on Saturday mornings are some of the best times in the world...marvelous, although somewhat bittersweet, because I know that these times are fleeting.

~That kitties can be blamed for anything. Even the physically impossible.

~That I'd ever be willing to pay major bucks online, having scoured the Web, for little yellow duckies, because we keep losing them and my middlest can't go without her duckie. And do so three times. So far.

~That the complex mix of emotions could ever coexist--without reaching critical mass and causing me to explode--as I watched my oldest get on the bus for school that first day.

~That I would ever say some of the crazy stuff that's come out of my mouth.

~That I would keep a list of the hilarious mutilations of words that my kids say...just because they're so darn cute.

~That I would keep a record of all the great one-liners my kids have said.

~That I would ever, in a zillion years, have any of these experiences.

Conversations.

Medium Fry: Unca D, my fumbs awre cwacked.

Hubby: They are?

Medium fry: Yes.

Hubby: Why are they cracked?

Medium Fry: Becawse dey'wre owld.


After recounting that conversation to my dad, he decided that he was going to closely monitor the state of his thumbs from now on.