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I try to be Christ-like. I try to do the right things. I try to say the right words. I try to think the right thoughts.
I try to smile at people as they pass. I try to support the appropriate causes. I try to love my neighbors even when they don’t love me back. I try to be kind and supportive to those in need.
Every day, I try to be like Christ.
Every day, I fail. I laugh at the wrong joke. I pass judgment on someone else’s life. I turn a blind eye to life’s injustice.
Always anxious to show off some newly discovered skill or knowledge, Squirts noticed the digital clock at the front of the car. From the back, he pointed and said, “Daddy, it’s 10:51. I know that number. That 5 and 1 make 51! It’s 10:51.”
Always anxious to affirm his newly discovered skill or knowledge, I make the appropriate “oohs” and “ahhs” about how smart he must be to know it’s 10:51.
Never let it be said that my son doesn’t know how to milk a moment: He begins singing at full volume “10:51, 10:51, 10:51, 10:51,” his voice moving progressively up the musical scale which each utterance of the time.
We were at Target buying a couple of birthday presents. Squirts had recently turned two and was standing in the cart as he and I headed to the toy section. Yes, I said standing in the cart, OK? And yes, I saw the pictogram with the slash through a child standing in the cart. But the people who draw those pictures have apparently never had a 2-year-old who wanted to stand in the cart. That’s not even the point of the story, so you can stop wagging your finger and read on.
Squirts’ mommy is hunting down a gift in another part of the store while we hit the toy aisle. As Squirts looks in awe and imagines what a life with this many toys would be like, I turn to the wall of Yu-Gi-Oh games we’ve come to pick up. While I try to decipher exactly what a Yu-Gi-Oh is, Squirts rattles on behind me about some toy he needs to take home.
A few weeks ago, for about three nights in a row, Squirts found reasons to come into our bedroom and wake me two or three times each night. First, you will note that I said wake ME up. Over the years, I have come to learn that it takes a lot more than a kiss on the cheek from her prince charming for my sleeping beauty to wake. More like a firm shove of a foot to the butt to begin rousing her slumber.
So, the pitter patter of four-year-old feet followed by the whack, whack, whack of a little hand on a pillow don’t stand a chance. Hey, no one said he’s stupid. Squirts has accurately assessed how to get the fastest reaction with the greatest ease (a theme I’m sure we will continue to recognize into the future).
Each pitstop throughout the night followed a pattern similar to this: pitter-patter-pitter-patter, whack-whack-whack, “can’t sleep/leg hurts/bad dreams/monsters/concerns about a shortfall in the college fund in 14 years.”
