“Mama, will your bottom just keep getting bigger and bigger until the baby gets here?”
Modern parenting has no shortage of overthinking things, and in particular, no shortage of overthinking holiday celebrations.
In the middle of a Saturday morning, with cartoon noise in the background, two dogs snoring after a brisk walk around the neighborhood, brothers rushing out the garage door to ride bikes and meet up with friends, our littlest will bust out in song.
They sit in their carseats, next to one another holding hands. The palest caucasion skin of anyone in the family, enfolding the brown hand of his Hispanic little brother. “Are they both yours?” The woman meeting us for the first time asks. “Yes,” I reply, but she wants more. “How did you get that black haired one?” “Same way I got the blond haired one.”
When it comes to mistakes, I tend to think I have a pretty healthy attitude on the subject. It’s okay, we all make mistakes, I tell my seven-year-old son when he accidentally falls off his pint-sized skateboard and skins his knee.
The banging of little metal cars against each other with the sounds of crashes made by young mouths. The shuffle of paper and the clack, clack, clack of a pile of markers being dumped out. An angry squeal by a younger sibling to ‘give it back!’
Our daughter lost her first tooth a few weeks ago. As I stared into that gaping hole in her mouth, I did the thing where you internally tear up and think, ‘where did my little baby go?’ in that wistful, nostalgic way. ‘It was only yesterday that I was holding her in my arms!’
After online and in-person trainings, and a firm understanding that we would not be adopting any pets of our own, we became certified Operation Kindness volunteers, the largest no kill shelter in north Texas.
From time to time the Forma Facebook Group has a post from someone (clergy, youth minister, Christian educator) who is asking if anyone has a “rubric” for what children should learn in each year of “Sunday School” (or whatever you call it).
During my time serving as the communications director for a particular diocese in the Episcopal Church, I was often overwhelmed at the stories of grand ministry taking place all over the globe.