The kids are making Easter cards for their grandmothers right now while I clean (and by clean, I mean excavate the house from the inches of dust and dirt and clutter that accumulated while I was avoiding cleaning). Quinlan saw me mopping the floor and asked to help. I, being the good, patient mother that I am, told her that she’d have to help me another time, because I needed to get the chore done quickly (aaaaaand today will mark the day when Quinlan’s love of helping and mastering tasks dies like a spurned grape on the vine of independence. Win one for her future therapist).
She grumbled when I told her this, her pout sticking out, her hands dropping the crayons she’d been holding so she could cradle her head in them. “I’m having the worst day ever,” she said, and stared at the construction paper in front of her.
I huffed over my mop, trying to scrub out a stain that might have been there since last Easter. “Actually,” I said–and hereby marks the day that Quinlan also lost her trust in faith, in following something because your parents tell you you should, in her kind, patient mother who up until now consistently respected her feelings:
“Actually, I think today Jesus had the worst day ever.”
I heard David laugh behind the closed door of his office, and kept mopping through the silence that now came from the eight-and-under crowd. Tough audience, those kids.
Happy Easter if you celebrate it this Sunday, friends. And wherever you are, whomever you are, be happy in the knowledge that as much as you might mess up, make mistakes, do something you immediately know you’ll regret, at least you didn’t tell your 5-year-old that Jesus had it worse than she does.
I’m off to go finish mopping now. I think I might let Quinn help.
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