Unfortunately I brought Jesus into it.
Of course we watched the Inauguration together
I already know the Presidents,
he informed me calmly.
I don’t need to learn them because I already know them all.
You’re four,
I said sternly.
You don’t know all the Presidents yet.
I know most of them,
he replied arrogantly.
Fine.
I said.
Pop quiz: name me four Presidents.
Well I know all of them,
he said with confidence.
Like Donald Trump.
Okay.
I said.
That’s one.
And Joe Biden.
he said.
Correct, thank goodness.
I said.
Who else?
And Kamala Harris,
he said, surging into the next one with extra confidence,
and…Lady Gaga.
Triumphant, he cocked his head up at me.
See? I know most of them.
I sighed.
Regarding Presidents
Prologue
Before people rush in and tell me to just let them be kids and he’s only four and all that, let me save some time:
He wants to learn. He wants to be given formal assignments, like his elder siblings, and he wants to absorb and be forced to learn these things. He’ll do so with a huff and some puffs and sighs and wonder with a big smile if he has to…and there is only one answer I can give.
Of course you have to,
I sigh.Okay,
he says cheerily:
I’m ready.
So…
Okay,
I said,
let’s start at the beginning. The first President was George who?
George W. Bush,
he stated confidently.
George Washington,
I said.
The second President was John who?
John Krasinksi,
he stated confidently.
John Adams,
I said.
The third President was Thomas who?
Thomas Harris,
he stated confidently.
No.
I said. The third President was not Thomas Harris, author of Silence of the Lambs, a book which I’m reasonably certain you have not yet read. Thomas Jefferson. Jefferson. How about the fourth? President James who?
James Quaid?
he stated confidently.
No.
I said.
Madison. James Madison.
Intermission
So,
I said,
the 9th President was William who?
The confidence on his face matched the confidence in his voice.
That’s easy,
he said.
President William Barr.
Oh boy.
I said.
Time for science.
A while later : Jesus, part 1
Goodnight,
I said, patting his head in the dark and starting my post-tuck-in exit as I mentally tried to remember what Becca and I had been watching the last time we turned the television on and getting excited at the prospect of imminently doing so and relaxing on a blessed couch all by ourselves.
I love you.
I whispered as I stepped out.
And Jesus loves you.
I heard an intake of breath, and knew in a milli-instant that I had made a mistake.
A mistake I try hard to avoid.
The mistake of being too interesting.
Too interesting at the wrong time.
I love my son, my sons, my kids. All of them. I say “I love you” both casually and thoughtfully. I say it because I mean it. It is not my intent to dilute the meaning by saying it frequently. But I do say it frequently enough that it is a common saying; a statement of affection innocuous and normal; a statement that should not elicit too much attention.
Or interest.
But unfortunately I brought Jesus into it. At the wrong time.
I believe that Jesus loves people. Loves me. Loves our son. That’s also an idea they’ve heard before. Not a fresh new concept.
But I shouldn’t have said it right then. Because it was too interesting.
I felt his presence go from almost-asleep to completely-awake.
Well,
he said in a confident whisper,
you don’t know where Jesus is. And I don’t know where he is right now. I think maybe he’s hiding.
I tried unsuccessfully to sigh silently as I climbed back beside him.
Well, umm,
I thought carefully,
…I am certain that Jesus loves you, and that he would love to hang out with you.
If he comes here then he’ll have to fly,
he bypassed my remark.
He doesn’t have a car and he doesn’t know how to drive so I think he flies.
Okay, I said. I don’t know too much about his transportation preferences. But I know that Jesus cares about you and I have a feeling that Jesus gets a kick out of you. I wanna be careful about speaking on Jesus’ behalf, but I got a feeling you make Jesus laugh. In a good way.
I bet he’d like to wrestle with me.
he mused.
I agree.
I stated truthfully.
And he’d like to chase me, and read books, and play hide and go seek,
he said.
I agree,
I said truthfully.
Do you think he’d like to bake with me?
he asked.
Yes.
I said.
I do think that.
Love
Anyway, I said after some further conversation had elapsed and he had covered a list of recipes Jesus might like to bake together,
I agree: I think that Jesus would like to make pancakes with you.
I love pancakes.
he said.
I know.
I said.
Do you what I love even more than pancakes?
What?
he said.
You.
I said.
I love you more than I love pancakes.
Oh.
he said.
Do you know what I love more than pancakes?
What?
I asked.
Waffles.
he said.
I love waffles even more than pancakes.
Goodnight, part 2,
I said,
creaking myself out of his bed.
I’ll see you pretty soon, and I love you.
Oh,
he said, lifting himself up.
Can we have pancakes or waffles in the morning?
The secret life of spies and their fans
What are you doing?
I said, coming out to the living room after getting the last of the creatures tucked in (see: above).
She looked up from the floor, folding a pair of ripped underwear belonging to one of the sleeping creatures, or to her husband, and tapped her phone to pause whatever it was that was absorbing her attention.
Oh nothing,
she said.
Just folding some laundry and listening to Edward Snowden.
Edward Snowden?
I clarified.
Like, the intelligence analyst spy Edward Snowden who’s living in Moscow?
Yeah,
she said.
That Edward Snowden. It’s a really interesting interview with him.
Oh.
I said.
Some moments you are extra sexy.
Is this one of those moments?
she might have asked, or thought.
It is,
I might have thought, or said.
Shall we watch some television?
We began to do so,
and then the one-year old creature began gently screaming for one of us from his lair down the hall. I sighed and departed the couch.
——
