It's late and I'm exhausted but I wanted to write some of these things down before they slip my mind and I forget. I really need a better system for writing these sorts of things down.
This past Monday night, Dennis planned our family home evening lesson about service. He started out asking the boys if they knew what service was and after the appropriate "church" answers, started talking to them about when Jesus washed the feet of his disciples. As he began telling the story, Camden interrupted him and with the appropriate and very animated motions said, "Oh, I know this story! It's when Jesus washed his fossils feet!"
Trying to hide a smile, Dennis said, "That's right, and do you know why he wanted to do that for them?"
"Because they had sand between their toes and they didn't have anywhere to take a shower or a bath!"
Dennis tried to tell him that it was the way Jesus was showing them that he loved them but Camden seemed completely confused as to how washing someone's dirty feet was a way of showing them that they are loved and insisted that it was because their feet were so dirty.
Message given, message received. That's as much as a six year old cares to know.
It reminds me of a time when Camden was a sunbeam. I was a primary teacher at the time so I was sitting a couple rows back from him on this particular Sunday. It was the first Sunday after President Hinckley had passed away and President Monson was the new leader of our church. The music teacher held up a picture of President Monson and asked if the children knew who he was. A few of the older children called out the correct answer. Sister Baker then said that he was the new prophet of our church.
Camden's little hand shot up and he said, "Well Jonah was a prophet...and he got swallowed by a whale!" The poor little guy was apparently quite concerned with President Monson's safety given Jonah's poor track record. He then turned to his friend sitting next to him and reassured him that it was okay because later the whale spit Jonah out onto the beach.
I also got a call earlier this week from Luke's preschool teacher saying that she was having trouble with him not following directions from her or the teacher's aide. She said he has been getting progressively more defiant and wanted to discuss the problem with me and explore some possible solutions.
When he got home from preschool that day, I asked him how preschool went. He nonchalantly said it went fine. I told him about the call I got from his teacher and he looked at me with his huge eyes in innocent protest and said, "Well that's not a very nice truth to say!"
I had better not leave little Lauren out. She's still too little to say much but there is one thing she's learned to say really well. It's "Maaaaaaaaaaaaaaam!" in the loudest, most ear-splitting voice her little lungs can muster. She doesn't say it passively or with any sort of tenderness in her voice. She looks squarely at me, points at what she wants, opens her mouth, and lets it fly. Oh my, she reminds me of la Chilindrina on El Chavo del Ocho. For anyone who hasn't seen it, it's a Mexican television show that's hoot. I love it. Chilindrina is my favorite character.
I'd better get to bed. 6:30am comes too soon.