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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.
Watching Squirts throw a ball – or anything else – is like watching a physics experiment in kinetic energy. The act of launching the object from his hand involves some aspect of every visible part of his body. As his right hand pulls back with the ball, his left arm juts out with a fist curled under. His tongue sticks out in one direction or another, often giving away the final destination of the object in question. His eyes either squeeze shut or bulge open. And at the last moment his left leg lifts and swings in an awkward arch in an attempt to make the ball fly as far as possible.
If he could raise both legs at the same time, he’d probably give it a shot.
The other morning, after Squirts ate his breakfast, I set his clothes out and told him it was time to get dressed while I went to get ready for the day. About 30 minutes later, I returned to the living room and – Squirts was dressed. Shirt, underwear, shorts and socks! Hallelujah!
Don’t get me wrong. This isn’t the first time that’s happened. But no matter how many times it does, I’m still haunted by the days we battled to get the boy dressed every day. Here’s how the playback of those days runs on the screen in my mind, backed by the flashing lights and music of the Little Einstein’s:
While the child is distracted by educational TV, we strategically lay out a clean set of clothes for easy reach; then with ninja-like agility, dad makes a sneak attack from behind sweeping the child from his feet and pinning him to the floor; mom swoops in and deftly removes the pajama bottoms with one hand while reaching for the clean underwear and pants with the other; with little more than a look, parents make a tag team reversal and mom pins the boy while dad quickly replaces the pajama top with a crisp, clean t-shirt; with a high-five and a “Hoo Ya” the child is dressed and released.
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.
