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“What if every tow truck ran out of gas?”
“How do bodies get to heaven after they’ve been buried?”
“‘Si usted está contento y usted sabe que aplaudas! That means, ‘If you’re happy and you know it clap you hands!”
It’s not unusual for a period of 15 minutes with Squirts to follow this or some similar line of conversation. Sometimes, it’s like trying to chase popcorn. Just when you think you know where a topic is headed…pop, we’re off in another direction.
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Nothing tests my faith more than the evil rantings of a 4-year-old.
And make no mistake – I had no doubt that Squirts’ mind, body and soul had been possessed by Satan himself. What else could explain the five-octave drop in his voice, the defiant stare of his now-dilated eyes or the smoke seeping from his ears (I swear I saw smoke!) as he declares storming toward his room:
“I will NEVER put on my Crocs and you are not my Daddy any more!”
Not five minutes earlier, he had been regaling me with a description of his dream sandwich: tear off a piece of wheat bread; put on a pancake with syrup; add gummy bears and leave off the mayonnaise. My response to this about-face in attitude: dust off the Yellow Pages and turn to letter “E” for exorcist. And I’m not even Catholic.
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