9 pound, 14 ounces of baby. That’s what I gave birth to with our first child, Ben. Yes, I earned my Mommy merit badge on that one. (Then there was Gabe at 10 pounds 7 ounces… but that’s a different story.) My first child was huge. When they laid him on my stomach, I couldn’t believe how heavy he was. And he only got bigger. And bigger.
At six months old, I would push him around stores in his stroller. Sweet, kind women would stop and ask, “Awww, How old is your little boy?”
“Six months.” Then came the long pause, smiles slightly askew. Clearly they expected me to say a year or more.
“Oh. Well, he sure is… um… cute!” Alright lady. Move along.
Yes, I am one of those drill sergeant moms who doesn’t allow snacking right before a meal. I don’t allow desserts first. I want my children to have good appetites. They eat their veggies… and if “You no eats… you no treats.” When the belly is full of junk, it isn’t going to want to eat the good stuff.
There is an illness plaguing Christians worldwide. It is severe in nature and very dangerous. It is highly contagious. Symptoms include a lack of healthy appetite, which leads to weakness and anemia.
“I don’t believe in fairies!”
With those words, in the story of Peter Pan, a fairy somewhere drops dead.
“I don’t believe in Santa Claus.”
With those words, the magic of Christmas ceases.
“I don’t believe the Bible! I don’t believe in God!”
With those words?
“Take a shower.”
“Clean your room?”
“Bring your rain suit.”
“Why?” (Um… holding back the sarcasm that wants to come out…)
“Write your work in cursive.”
“Go change that dirty shirt!”
“Why?” (Seriously? You can’t SEE why?)
At our first missions conference on deputation, we went to a church in Florida. They sang Happy Birthday to people who had birthdays that week, but they sang it a little differently. The first verse was the same, but the second was wonderful.