Wait a minute...I'm not Jesus!

Last week, I was attempting to carve out 5 minutes to myself...truthfully, I can't even remember what I was trying to do. Pay bills online, maybe, or fill out some government form for James's SIN number. Regardless, it was something where I needed just a few minutes to focus and get shit done. Isla and James were sleeping and Jack, being that he's 5, was asked (kindly, the first 47 times...) to entertain himself. But no. He kept whipping into my office, asking me to help him kick a field goal on his NFL PlayStation game. I informed him that I was completely useless in that arena, and that I hadn't kicked anything since the days of the joystick. He was like,

"What's a joystick, Mommy?"
"Precisely my point, honey. Mommy ain't got the skills."

He kept coming back, in and out, requesting the following (but not limited to): apple juice, granola bar, chocolate milk, field goal attempt, wipe my bum, new pair of pants, cookie, come watch my replay, crayons, movie, book from school, come watch my pick-off...I'd go on but it's too painful.

At one point, I got up and told him that he was going to work on his numbers and letters while Mommy finished up her stuff. So I set him up with his workbook, some markers, juice, granola bar, new pair of pants, pack of smokes, vodka, whatever the hell was within a 10-yard radius, and left him there at the table to get back to what I was doing.

A second later, maybe two, I heard him walking over to where I was...feeling the need to shout flag on the play, I shrieked, and I mean SHRIEKED LIKE A CRAZY PERSON:

"JACK, WHAT DID I JUST EFFING SAY ABOUT LEAVING MOMMY ALONE FOR 5 EFFING MINUTES ALREADY! I'M GOING LOSE MY MIND IF YOU INTERRUPT ME ONE MORE TIME."

Undaunted, and completely unconcerned about my potential mind loss, he turned the corner into my office, tears in his eyes, and stated: "But Mommy, I just wanted you to tell me how to spell Jesus."

It's rather easy to fall to your knees and hug your child when you feel two inches tall. Mercy. I felt like the biggest asshole on the planet...and really, of all words your child is attempting to spell when you go completely bat-shit on them? Jesus.

All this got me to thinking about a video taken a few months ago. Last September, Roddy and I were about to head off to Spain for a couple of weeks with James, our three-month old son. It's a tradition - we take our newborns there to escape from our other children for a couple weeks of bonding. So because we were leaving two kids behind, it was time to update the will, leave everything in order, just in case. I also made sure that we took a lot of videos that week leading up to the trip; if the plane went down, I wanted Jack and Isla to have some memories from the last time we spent together. (Very morbid thought, yes, but hey it happens...better to be prepared.)

The following is footage was taken the night before we were leaving. I'm cuddling with Jack, saying our usual prayer for the evening, which goes as follows:

"Lord as I lay me down to sleep
I pray thee Lord my soul to keep.
And the angels watch me through the night,
And keep me in their blessed sight. Amen."

This time, I wanted to say more. I wanted Jack to know how to thank Jesus for all he's been given...his family, his friends, the country he lives in and so on. Again, I wanted to get it just right as this was part of his legacy, should I not return. And so I began:

"Thank you Jesus..." and I paused, for a millisecond, because I wasn't sure how to proceed. Do I say "Thank you Jesus for my family" or do I mention everyone in the family and say "Thank you Jesus for Grandma, Grandpa, Uncle Henry....and on and ON AND ON? Mercy, that could take hours. (Belgian Catholic family...need I say more...). The reason I was contemplating this at all, is because Jack's favourite thing to do before he falls asleep is to turn to me and ask, "Can you tickle my back and count my people?" (translation: tickle his back while I recite every single family member, and dare I skip someone to accelerate the process, he'll remind me that I've messed up and I have to start over, from the beginning.) OK, Moses, no problem. That'll only take all night, but what the hell, let's do it. I digress. So in that pause, right after "Thank you Jesus..." as I was thinking of how best to approach this prayer (at times, my anal tendencies shock even me...), Jack opens his mouth and declares:

"Wait a minute...I'm not Jesus!"

I was momentarily stunned as I wasn't quite sure I heard him right. But yes, I paused just a fraction too long, and because verbal statements come with no punctuation (save for the dreaded "air quotes"), what he heard was: "Thank you, Jesus." and not my intended, "Thank you Jesus..."

Dear Jack,
I do not suffer from (full-blown) dementia. I'm fully aware you're not Jesus. But in my mind, you're right up there.

Love,
Mommy