But that is precisely what happened. I said, “Who died?” and Toby burst into tears, spraying us with worms from the can I’d opened.

“Did somebody die?” and “Am I going to die?” and “When am I going to die?”

Greg and I were completely unprepared. He was crying so violently, so out of nowhere. Greg scooped him into his lap to calm him down. I sat beside them both stroking Toby’s arm, searching for a possible trajectory. How could he even know what “died” meant?!

“Am I going to die?” he said again.

Greg and I looked Toby straight in the eye and answered confidently “No!” [Greg] and “Someday…” [me]. What?! I shot Greg my subliminal indignation. Liar liar pants on fire.

Heartless messenger of evil, Greg shot back.

Clearly we had no plan. We sat for a moment, dumbfounded, watching Toby sob. Neither of us had a clue where to start, so we opted to board the Joy Bus through the valley of death like good Christian parents. “Let’s focus on Heaven! and Living Forever With God!”

“Will it hurt when I die? Is Charlie going to die? How long will I be dead?”

“Heaven is super-fun! God is awesome to be with!”

He cried so hard that the hangy thing in the back of his throat wiggled with every wail. “How am I going to die? I don’t want to die…”

It was more gut-wrenching than Beaches and Bridge to Terabithia together. How could we explain death and eternity to a four-year-old? Ten minutes before he was yelling “Come wipe me!” and now he was Socratically dissecting his own fate.

We whizzed through all the death scriptures we knew. “…conform to His death…?” “The wages of sin is death…?” Then we remembered this: “…Jesus, who has destroyed death…” That phrase became the pot in which we planted our integrity. We could look him in the eye and say “Dying is really scary, but don’t worry little man, Jesus wins.”

Then we all went to Sonic for a cherry limeade.

Just when you accepted either a) your chromosomal superiority or b) your (look out…) remarkable parenting skills, your second child springs from the womb yelling “no” and laughing while you try to snuggle his limp-bodied, kicking self into some semblance of the Willow Tree carving on the dresser.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you tell him, “I guess you didn’t know that breaking all the glass votive holders was dangerous. That yelling ‘Cookie!’ the entire time we ate out (though you were, in fact, holding a cookie) was irritating. That shrieking ‘Down! Down!’ as I carried you from preschool every day was embarrassing. It should look like this: you kneeling beside my heart-shaped, featureless face while I tenderly stroke your wooden cheek. Yes, that’s it! Isn’t that what you meant to do?”

Then your second child locks eyes with you and smiles very dimply and peachy while reaching one toe into the street just a touch, just a little weensy bit. “Charlie!” you say, “No sir! Go to the naughty spot!” You wave your arms and squinch your eyebrows so the neighbors see you are not permissive or negligent or incompetent, though you yourself aren’t really sure.

You scrutinize your care, your attentiveness, your goodness while he sits in time-out. You look at his tiny bean-of-a-self enduring this formality with the remorse of an artichoke. What am I doing wrong?

He grabs his wiggly feet and sings, “He ha da Whole worl in His han!” and “biddy biddy beebees, in his han!” until you realize the answer is nothing. What is flawed is the statue itself, because as moving as it seems, it isn’t as delightful, as marvelous, as perfect as this stubborn, extraordinary soul.

God don’t let me change him!

Thankfully, I knew just what to do. “Charlie! No sir!” I yelled and I mean YELLED with my mean frowny eyes digging right into his hard little head. Hahaha, that got Toby in line every time. I heard whimpering…

from Toby (wha?). Charlie, however, looked at me and laughed before running away with giddy excitement.

Mayday!

Over the past weeks I have spanked him. (Hilarious!) Put him in time out. (Thanks, I felt like a rest!) Took away toys. (I was done anyway!) Put him in his room. (I love it in there!) Yelled some more–louder, finger pointy-er, until the veins in my temples exploded and my head spun off into outer space. Did he wince? No! He appeared jubilant, no PROUD, of his powerful little self!

I overheard his preschool teachers talking about the “naughty spot.” The naughty spot, hmmm, worth a try. Later, I caught him throwing an expectant peek over his shoulder as he casually unplugged the DVD player during Toby’s movie.

“Charlie, do you need to go to the naughty spot?” I asked. And…

His lower lip trembled. TREMBLED! He let go of the plug, hung his head, and waddled away. I have never felt such joy making a child cry in shame. Booyah!!!!

Today, I am going to ignore his charming dimples (okay, one little cheek squeeze). I am going to ignore his father (the pastor!) who insists “naughty spot” sounds a little dirty. Today victory is mine!!!! Mwahahaha!*

*Feel free to leave ideas for tomorrow…