Momnesia

Let Me Know if God Answers, 'Cause I Have a Few Questions, Myself

Augusta, Ga. - Emmie and I were making dinner, and I wouldn't let her cut a potato with a "real" knife.

"I'll be very careful," she pleaded.
"No, ma'am," I said, firmly. "It's too dangerous."

She sighed, wearily: "Mama, I so tired of you telleend me wut ta do."

I couldn't help but laugh. I remember that feeling. It's like a world full of no. But I tried to explain.

"I know, Doodlebug. But that's my job. It's a mommy and daddy's job to tell you what to do, until you get old enough to tell yourself what to do, the right way," I said.

She looked hard at me: "But who gib you that job?"

What a great question! I answered with a simplified concept I knew she'd understand, as opposed to a long monologue about social contracts and primal instincts: "God gave me that job."

She furrowed her brow and shook her head in obvious disapproval: "Hmph. I goeend talk to God about dis."