Sometimes I feel sorry for our kids.
Generally this sympathy is brought about by one incident or another that makes me say, "Wow. You really are my kid," or likewise makes Derek say, "You really are your mother's daughter/son."
Last week's situation involved Atticus having an outburst in his bedroom at naptime. Upon hearing his sudden shrieks, I loped up the stairs, ran into his room, and asked, "What's the matter, Bud?" He cried/yelled, "There's something on my eyes!" My thoughts immediately ran to logical explanations like blindness due to acid in his eyes (because you know we keep a vat of acid in the corner of our childrens' bedroom), so I rushed over, knelt down, and tried to gently pull his eyelids up. He resisted and said, "No, HERE!"
He then ran his fingertips over his eyebrows.
A few weeks before that, it took me the better part of an afternoon to finally figure out what was bothering Adelaide. All she would tell me was that she had done something bad and was afraid that I wouldn't love her anymore, and worse, that God wouldn't love her anymore. I petted and soothed her enough to where she finally admitted, sobbing, that "I bowed down to Atticus!"
It took me a bit to figure out exactly what she meant and what had happened; something about how she was bowing down for some reason or other, Atticus happened to come stand in front of her, and after all the Old Testament stories we've been reading about people like Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego, she thought that literally bowing down in front of anyone but Jesus Himself would earn her a one-way ticket to Hell. It took quite a while to calm her down after this one.
I can only imagine what Derek must think during these little kid-crises- perhaps that he should have been a little more choosy in his search for a wife and subsequent mother of his children?
I am well able to understand what our kiddos are thinking during these episodes. They're probably similar to the kind of thoughts I have when I wake up in the middle of the night, it seems especially bright outside our bedroom window, and my first thought is, "Aliens. I knew it."
Our son's little eyebrow scare mostly likely brought forth feelings like the ones I had the other night when, after calming Atticus down at around 2 am, I crawled back into bed, Derek rolled over in his sleep, and one of his hands came to rest near my leg. His fingers were on part of my pajama pants, and somehow, every time he inhaled, his hand moved a fraction, and it plucked at the material of my pajamas. I chuckled over this for a second, until horror overcame the humor, because I rapidly managed to convince myself that due to the fact that he was lying on his back, his hand couldn't have been facing that way and performed that strange plucking action; instead, he must have sprouted another hand off of his hip, and it was this new limb that was snagging my clothing, trying to get my attention.
It took me a full minute to gather the courage to throw the covers back and see if there was an extra hand near his abdomen. I'll save you the suspense: there wasn't.
So although our children may seem crazy now, don't worry. Strong evidence suggests that while they may not outgrow this paranoia, they will become rather skilled at hiding it from the public at large.