My darling, handsome, strong, smart, funny, attractive, shockingly well-endowed husband (Are we even, now?) dropped my son off at preschool for me today.
My son has a little friend there. We’ll call him H. H’s family is Catholic. Hardcore. Practicing. 4 kids and one more on the way kind of practicing Catholics. H likes to talk God. A lot. As in “God is the boss of you, you know.”
So my husband hears H talkin’ God to my son this morning.
My son replies, “God’s not even REAL!!”
My first foray into “religion” with the boy came a year and a half ago, when his great-grandmother passed away. He asked where she went. I was in the middle of trying to nurse a very cranky baby, and I hadn’t slept for a long time. I didn’t want to say the wrong thing. But I had to say something.
“She went to Heaven.” Oh crap. I realize where this line of questioning is going to go. I always thought than when these questions came up, I would have already prepared a thoughtful and balanced discussion about the world’s major religions, complete with visual aids. Nope.
“It’s where God lives.” Oh man, this train is going right off the rails, and all I can do is watch.
“Well, he’s the guy who some people believe (look at me, still scrambling to keep this objective) created the world and the people in it.”
My son sits for a full minute. He doesn’t say anything, and I assume he’s lost interest.
“Oh. I thought his name was Larry.”
So, apparently, he’s decided some things on his own since our “big” talk. Part of me is happy that I’m raising a kid who questions dogma. Part of me feels like I’ve already shut doors for him. And part of me is still wondering how many omnipotent Larrys my kid knows.