Descending the stairs into the living room today, I noticed a very focused two-year-old hurrying to the couch…whereupon lay her daddy. The prognosis was grim: He was sick. And dying. On the cross.
She treated him with much medicine (read “all the contents of her play kitchen from the next room”) to make him better, meanwhile explaining to us that she had to carry him to the cross so he could die. Then she would take care of him. And though she insisted she was not a doctor…or a soldier…just a Person…she took to her task with grave seriousness.
Thankfully, she succeeded — or failed? I’m not quite sure which — and my husband is happy and healthy beside me once again!
Hey, whoever said make-believe had to make sense?
Ambling through Motherhood 