Perhaps most parents don’t take their four year olds to see modern dance. There certainly weren’t any other kids present. A teenaged boy lurking with his dad in the back, but nobody remotely pint-sized other than Beangirl.
This morning, we’re snails again. We’ve got the old station wagon packed to the gunwales, and we’re heading east again.
Growing up, I spent all my summers at camp. Yes, we’re talking a good old Presbyterian summer camp with moist cabins, the outdoor chapel overlooking the lake, canoes and mosquitoes galore, cabins and campfires and all that.
What books are important to you right now? What is on your bedside table? What’s overdue on your library card? What are you taking to the cottage?
As of today, I’ve been a mother for four years. If you count the birth of the child as the birth of the mother. My own mum counts up the ages of all of her offspring and calculates it out that way. Impressive when she does it; I’m just getting started.
Kids ask hard questions. And we lucky parents get to answer them. How’s this for practical theology?
“Who are we to say what God finds proper?” So this week, I’m thinking about play. And playgrounds.
Recently, my daughter has been toasting God. And I don’t like it.
Reading these stories, you know that to be somewhere cosy and bright and with family is to be connected to a greater goodness. And sometimes that’s hard because the house is small and being a little sister and a big sister at the same time isn’t easy.
Memory loss is everywhere these days. Culturally, we seem fascinated with it. It’s like a Rubik’s cube that we keep picking up, not really expecting to solve it but playing with it nonetheless because it’s so intriguing.
I want to consider parenting as a spiritual practice. Not because parenting is purer or more sacred or less worldly than other activities, but because it is so consistently messy.