When I was a child, there were certain words and phrases that set my red headed temperament exploding. One of the times this was most evident was on the grassy fields during recess. It was on these fields that I heard from the lips of those testosterone filled boys bombs like, “fireball”, “Annie”, and the most hated, “red headed Woody Woodpecker”. These words pushed the buttons those ornery boys so desired to push and my reactions to these emotional charges were felt all the way down into my skinny white, freckled legs with energy that could possibly rival that of the atomic bomb. I was on a mission. It did not waver. Chase the boy whose mouth uttered the detestable vile and reply with some sort of unplanned physical force. The so desired reaction had been achieved.
Other phrases and scenarios made me respond more implosively, like when some kid told me my belt was a boy’s belt and the fact that I was wearing it somehow made me want to be a boy. Another time would be when my mom made me a great sandwich for lunch that was stacked with fresh deli meat, a slice of cheese, lettuce and a slice of juicy tomato complete with mustard and mayo. Some joker kid sitting next to me spied my unusually large sandwich. He was only able, or so it seemed, to announce to all the students at the other 10 lunch tables how gross and disgusting my sandwich appeared. I was a little hungrier for dinner that night.
The words that were probably the most difficult for me to handle were the words, “How weird!” and “You are so weird!” That would send me to the office in tears for sure and there was a definite plan to be out of hearing distance from the person who spoke them. I think that weird was repeated the most to my ears for whatever thing it was. My clothes were weird, my hair was weird, my food was weird, I walked weird. You know how it goes. You hear something enough and you start believing it is true of your being. Weird still does not resonate well with me, though I am thankful I can be confident in Christ and the truth of God’s Word.
Fast forward about 25 years, and I find myself watching my son as he goes to school. I think often about how different his life is. He rides to school with mom. I walked from the babysitter. He’s learning a foreign language in hardcore emersion style plus another class for French, and, oh yeah, he speaks English at home. Only English for me! He has a tutor and a decent amount of homework, and I had none. He carries a whole book bag filled with textbooks, workbooks, notebooks, art supplies, lunch and his jacket. I just needed lunch. There are a myriad of differences between his childhood and mine.
One difference that I am thankful for is the opportunities for us to get out of town. We have been able to find some affordable places to stay that provide ample opportunity to go snorkeling, build sand castles and swim around in the pool. We have also recently discovered the several areas available for camping within a four hours drive. We took this one opportunity to go camping at the beginning of October with a couple of other families and their kids. My son just so happens to have a crush on one of the girls that came along. He took every opportunity he could to be with her (which meant there was a lot of great rock climbing involved). One evening after dinner we were getting our s’mores supplies out. Judge was wearing his ultra cool “camping” pants that zipped off to turn into shorts. The girl that he played with all week had not recalled seeing anything like this before to which she promptly retorted, “That’s so weird!” which sent me directly back to elementary school and the pain was beginning to form in my heart until I heard from Judge, “They’re not weird. They’re AWESOME. THEY’RE CAMPING PANTS!” And a smile radiated across his face as he ran off with the girl to the bonfire to get warm. I could hear him laughing like the weird statement was the silliest thing he’s heard yet. And my memories were suddenly forgotten.
