“How do you make holy water?” asked Squareboy. I, of course, thought he was serious being as he asked this after a day at catholic school. I launched into what could best be described as a dissertation. He interrupted me not even halfway through, laughing like a hyena;
“You boil the hell out of it!” For that we pay $700 a month.
Wednesday I picked Squareboy and Daughter up from school, both proudly wearing ashes on their forehead from the Ash Wednesday mass they’d attended. Actually, daughter only had the remnants of a bruise left from the previous week, she’d touched her ashes so many times there wasn’t a speck to be seen. But I ooh’ed and aah’ed anyway. Once in the car, not sure what triggered it, daughter started crying and having a fit. Great.
“I don’t want to go to Heaven! I just want to go home.” Somewhere in the whole explanation of Ash Wednesday, Lent and Easter her poor 4-year-old brain got overloaded and she really didn’t care that Jesus died on the cross so she could go to Heaven. She wanted to go home. Squareboy tried his bestest to make her feel better.
“Trust me! You want to go to heaven.” Then, sotto voce, “not down there.” Pointing dramatically. “That’s like a dungeon and you’ll be tortured!”
“I hate Ass Wednesday” daughter screamed.
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