I'm Lindsay Ferrier, a Nashville writer with a passion for family travel, exploring Tennessee, and raising kids without losing my mind in the process. This is where I share my discoveries, along with occasional deep thoughts, pop culture tangents and a sprinkling of snark. Want to get in touch? Use the CONTACT form at the top of the page.
July 12, 2008
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“Mommy,” Punky said while I was getting ready this morning.
“Yes?”
“I’m so glad God made you my parents.”
“I am too.”
“And all I ever wanted was a little brother named Bruiser, and Jesus made him for me and put him in your tummy!”
“That’s right!” I said. I guess Punky learned the phrase ‘Jesus made me’ at some point during one of her Sunday School classes, because she has used it with abandon now for months. “You’re the best friend that Jesus ever made,” she’ll tell some random kid at the YMCA nursery. “I’m so glad Jesus made you,” she’ll say politely on occasion to our adult friends. Thankfully, we live in the South, where Jesus statements are so common they don’t raise a single eyebrow, but it’s funny to me that my daughter walks around sounding more like she was raised by a Baptist preacher than by a mom and dad who indeed love Jesus, but certainly say the F-word entirely too often for Jesus’s taste.
“Mommy, did Jesus put Bruiser in your tummy or did God?” I sighed. This was where things got weird.
“Um, God did,” I said. “Jesus is God’s son.”
“Mommy, how did God put Bruiser in your tummy, how?” Punky asked.
Oh. No.
“Wellllllll,” I said slowly, stalling for time. “Mommy and Daddy loved each other and then God put the baby in Mommy’s tummy.” I winced. As far as explanations go, that one sucked.
“How did He get it there?” she prodded.
For the life of me, I wanted to say he used magic. Punky got magic. She was running around the house with her various “wizard wands” and casting spells all the damn time. But if I used the “M” word, she might start confusing God with her latest obsession, Harry Potter, and I had a feeling that wouldn’t go over so well at church.
“Well God does things that we can’t really understand,” I said. “God made all of us. He’s smarter than we are. He put all of us in our mommy’s tummies so that we could be born.”
“And where does God live?” Punky asked, settling in to some pillows on my bedroom floor while I put on mascara in the bathroom mirror.
“He lives in the sky,” I said. “We can’t see him.”
“And what does Jesus do?”
“Uh, he hangs out in the sky with God. And that’s where we go too, when we die.”
“What?!” Punky said, sounding slightly panicked. “I don’t want to go up there. I want to stay here forever!”
“Well, you won’t go there for a long, long, long, long, long, long, long, lonnnnng time,” I said. She giggled. “You’ll be very old. And some day, we’ll all be there together if we’re good and not naughty.”
I held my breath. To this day, I remember realizing for the first time at the age of four that I was going to die some day, and crying my eyes out from the sheer terror of that knowledge… Would Punky do the same?
“Owwww!” she squealed. I jumped. “This close hanger is attacking me!” I looked around the door, where she writhed on the pillows, a clothes hanger looped over one arm. “Get off me, hanger,” she said menacingly, grabbing the rogue wire. “Grrrrrr!” This conversation was over.
Thank, uh, God.
This post originally appeared on Parents.com.
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