For of Such is the Kingdom of Heaven

Tea: Stomach Soother

Music: Pink Floyd, "Learning to Fly"

Time: Night.

Christians, of which I am (or at the least aspire to be) one, are told we should have childlike faith.

Then we're told to shut up, listen and accept, because that's what good kids do.

This is what's known, or should be known, as an Epic Theology Fail.

Have you been around real children? They ask questions. Over and over. About everything.

What's that? What does that word mean? Why did that man do that? Why? Why? Why?

Children throw themselves into their interests. When I was in grade school, I read everything I could find on ghosts, dinosaurs and Bigfoot. (Yeah, I was a weird kid.) I couldn't get enough, even if I did have trouble sleeping sometimes.

And when they see something wrong, they'll let you know about it -- and they know what needs to be done.

You won't hear, That lady looks hungry. Let's tell him he's going to hell if he doesn't accept Jesus right now! or Look, she fell down and she's bleeding. Let's go hand her a tract and ask her if she has found God yet! from a four-year-old.

Here's what you'll hear:

That man's cold. We should give him a coat.

That woman's lonely. Someone should go sit by her.

That little boy is crying. Let's help him.

That's the faith of a child: Open to joy and quick to offer solace in sorrow, quick to make a new friend or forgive an old one, voraciously seeking knowledge and unafraid to ask the hard questions in order to get it.

Does that mean maturity is somehow bad? Absolutely not. There's a world of difference between childlike and childish. But wonder, fairness and curiosity don't inhibit growth. They foster it.

Were I a preacher, there might be a sermon in that.

Man Out of Time

Tea: Oolong Pouchong

Music: Sweet, "Ballroom Blitz"

Time: Late evening.

I was four when my dad was the age I am now, so my recollections of how he dressed are based more on photographs than memory. I do recall that he often wore suits and ties (and a sweet mohair sweater of which I once had brief possession).

Later in life, he took to wearing shorts, T-shirts, white socks and baseball shoes (often with mesh-backed trucker hatsfrom the bank where he worked). I, being a teenager by then, was mortified.

My kids are teens already -- which means I get the fun of embarrassing them. Sometimes it's mismatched socks, sometimes ratty Chuck Taylor high-tops -- but it's hard to beat a good T-shirt for maximum embarassment value.

Two years ago, my daughter -- then a high school freshman -- and I went to a theatre event at her school. I wore a black shirt, bearing (in white) a tiny Grim Reaper and the words "I see dead people."

When the house lights went down, we discovered that Death and the letters glowed in the dark.

"Da-aaadd!"

Needless to say, I spent the evening clutching a playbill to my chest. Every time I even hinted at letting my light shine, she elbowed me in the ribs.

I still have that shirt -- but lately, it's been more fun to wear Christmas gear (shirts and socks) out of season. Today, it was a gray T-shirt bearing a big picture of Snoopy in full Santa gear.

The kids are getting jaded, though. Now, they just roll their eyes.

Maybe I should really shake them up. You know: suits, ties, maybe the odd mohair sweater ...

Cup XL: My Child Won't Fit on a Bumper Sticker

Tea: Pu-er Poe

Music: Selections for high school strings

Time: Night.

Disclosure: The tea was steeped, and consumed, this morning. But tonight brought the events of note.

First, the junior daughter (not the younger daughter -- junior as in eleventh grader) was inducted into the National Honor Society. Yeah, I'm going braggy dad here. I'm proud of her, because she's shown a lot more dedication than I ever did in high school. I might have been the only National Merit Scholar in history never to make the honor roll. It's an accomplishment of sorts, but not exactly the right kind of sorts.

Then, I came home after the ceremony to find that the sophomore son had applied his goofy brand of charisma to charm friend/colleague/fellow traveler Seánan Forbes into writing not one, but two ghost stories for him to recite to his drama class. She's a professional storyteller, so I'd suggested he ask her for help. A few hours later, she had done far more than that. Not that I've gotten to read them. He gave me an evil grin and ordered me away from the computer. I think maybe the ghost gets me in the end.

The eighth grade daughter was asleep by then. No doubt dreaming up uses for her dry wit, which she reveals more and more every day. (She has her cockeyed moments, too. She insists I'm a frog, but won't say why or which kind. Some game she and Seánan dreamed up, when Seánan hied her away to New York for a night at the American Museum of Natural History. Yes, that's where the T-Rex mug came from.)

There's much I'm discovering about the kids. It's a grace and a gratitude that what I'm learning is good.

Tonight's story (in which I know I do not appear):

Perceval Landon, "Thurnley Abbey"

Cup XXXI: You Say 'Pain in the Neck' Like it's a Bad Thing

Tea: Ginger Peach Green.

Music: (External) Various selections for middle school orchestra and chorus; (Internal) Bruce Cockburn, "If I Had a Rocket Launcher"

Time: Evening

Okay, so maybe a rocket launcher would be a bit extreme. But tonight only served to reinforce my belief that some people (namely, I and others of my choosing) should be allowed to carry blowguns.

Nothing lethal, mind you. Tranquilizer darts only. A little "Pffft," a little sting in the neck, and someone annoying goes sleepy-bye for a couple of hours.

Tonight's middle school music concert would have been a target-rich environment.

The exuberant toddler who ran around between songs gets a pass. He was quiet during the music. But the person behind him who kept egging him on? Pffft!

The couple who picked the start of the second orchestra's performance to make their entrance -- not slipping in silently, but clomping up the steps? Pffft! Pffft!

(Her t-shirt read "Goddess." Um, maybe this one.)

The parents who thought we were all there to listen to them blather sotto voce, instead of hearing -- oh, I don't know -- music? Pffft! Pffft! Pffft! Pffft! Pffft! Pffft!

I'm merciful, though. I'd let them go without radio collars and ear tags.

Tonight's mischievously spooky story:

Saki (H.H. Munro), "Laura"

Cup XXX: A Plastic Bottle of Parenthood Lite

Tea: Moroccan Rose/Mint

Music: Bobby Vee, "Take Good Care of My Baby"

Time: Night

There's a "baby" "sleeping" in the living room. I put both words in quotation marks because the object in question only simulates a dozing infant. The teenager sleeping in the living room is real enough, though.

The high school junior has brought home a "RealCare Baby" as part of her Child Development class. She's supposed to take care of it overnight -- responding to its programmed cries by (a) rocking it, (b) "feeding" it, (c) "changing" its diaper or (d) "burping" it, and not by (e) ignoring it or (f) doing bad things to it.

An array of sensors inside the "baby" record her actions -- the daughter's, not the "baby's." This is designed to protect the "baby" not only from abuse or neglect by its "parent," but from acts of outright sabotage by -- in this case -- the freshman "uncle" and the eighth grade "aunt."

(I'm supposed to say "she," not "it," for the pretend baby, which the daughter (following directions) has named "Hayley Joy." It's supposed to aid with bonding.)

The whole purpose of the assignment is to get teens to see that being a parent isn't glamorous. That's an admirable goal, but a misguided approach. Anyone can spend one night with a doll, even a cranky one, without it being a life-changing experience.

Well, almost everyone. The same friend who brought my youngest to New York and called her "child of my deepest heart" gleefully admits that RealCare Baby would have fared horribly on her watch.

"I would have found a great t-shirt for it every day, though, before it starved to death," she said.

But this isn't a realistic picture of single parenthood. It's Parenthood Lite.

This "baby" doesn't projectile vomit. It doesn't let fly with another load of sticky, foul-smelling toxic waste while you're changing its diaper. It doesn't develop colic and cry for hours on end. It doesn't leave you wondering how you're going to afford to keep it fed and clothed and healthy.

And let me repeat this: She only has it for one night.

It's not the first night at home with a new baby that threatens to devolve into madness. It's the fourth straight night with inexplicable screaming jags at 2 a.m. It's the gigantic glob of spit-up on the shoulder of a new shirt. It's the inevitable "It's your turn" arguments.

When schools figure out a way to simulate that, then perhaps bringing home a "baby" will provide a real, lasting lesson. As it is, it's just one more chant in a long litany of "If you pretend to be pregnant/homeless/a minority for a day, you will know what it is to be pregnant/homeless/a minority" foolishness.

You know who's learned the biggest lesson from RealCare Baby? The people who make it. They've figured out that no matter what you charge for a bad idea, you can get school boards to spend tax dollars (that's your money and mine, folks) on it if you can bamboozle them into thinking it's "good for the children."

Flawed (and expensive) though the assignment is, my daughter's taking it as seriously as she can. That's more a credit to her than to the concept. Even if she'd never held a RealCare Baby, when the time comes she'll do just fine taking care of a real baby.

Tonight's spooky story:

Frank R. Stockton, "The Bishop's Ghost and the Printer's Baby"