My son came downstairs this evening, dressed in his Christmas pajamas, showing me his new magnetic calendar. It has labels for each month, for days, and icons for special events. For example, he has a school bus put on Tuesday, the day he’s supposed to return to school from his summer-length winter vacation. Today is noted with a snowflake. Because it snowed. Again. We just returned home and have only seen the grass in our backyard for about an hour over three-ish weeks: oy. Another day further on in the month is decorated with balloons and cake and such, but we won’t go into detail about that.
One of the magnets has two hearts, I suppose, for that Sainted Mister Valentine (or my mama’s birthday, or my nana’s birthday, as it happens to all collide into one terrific 24 hour period). Judah looked at me and stated very matter-of-factly: “God makes hearts.” “Yes, son, yes God does.” “My heart is in my stomach. My heart and my stomach are right here. God made them.” “Oh . . . ?”
Later, as I was FB chatting with a lovely friend, Judah interrupted me to look at his “broken” tooth, a fairly nightly ritual that neither I nor his father have comprehended. Finally tonight we came to a realization that he believes his molars are broken, because they are not pointy like the rest of his teeth. I tried to explain that God designed teeth with different shapes so as to serve different functions. “So some bite off or rip off food, and others grind the food so we can swallow it.” “Yeah, with the broken teeth. I broke my tooth when I was Abel’s age. But God, when I break my teeth, God will make me new ones.” If only it were that easy, says the girl with a crown (though I love my crown: it’s a solid tooth. Now, the chipped tooth next to it is another matter . . . ).
This weekend I got to hear some funny adult interpretations of events and chronology. My mom wondered about scanning all the slides Dad took of their time in Germany as newlyweds working on the Air Force base. We came across an envelope of pictures of my dad’s parents that I have *NEVER* seen: pictures of my papa beeming with his sons, pictures of my nana with her mom and mother-in-law, pictures of my nana in little short-shorts and then (gasp) a two piece, pictures of my grandparents out on the town with (another gasp) bottles and glasses with alcoholic beverages in them. See, I grew up in an alcohol-free household mostly due to the fact that alcoholism runs in my family. But, as a small child growing up in Evangelical Southern Idaho, I began to assume that only “not good” houses drank and “good” houses didn’t. My parents never said that, but just as Judah somehow *knows* his heart is in his stomach and *knows* that his tooth is broken, I *knew* that alcohol was a sign of moral failure. My head has changed its views since then, but sometimes I wonder if my heart knows that. I also wonder what else my head and heart think they know for certain . ..
I also got to hear some funny interpretations of historic events as my parents tried to convince each other that they remembered events more accurately than the other. And as both my head and heart are in agreement, I knew just to keep.my.broken.toothed.mouth.shut.