Frocks

When I am at home I wear bright pink Crocks. They are comfy and a constant reminder of my hip fashion sense. As a bonus, my kids like to run through the house looking to see where I absent-mindedly left them last. It’s like Easter everyday here. Pink plastic and children crying because someone else found the prize.

Today Mister walked into the kitchen, where I was up to my elbows in the day’s dishes. “This floor is dirty. I will sweep it. I am going to get my Frocks.” Apparently floors cannot be cleaned without the proper footwear. He was dead serious. He returned, his cute toes tucked into camo knock-offs, and began to push the piles of food and paper scraps around in well-meaning, but ineffective circles until his arms, held over his head to grip the broom handle in the same spot I do, must have finally gone numb. He went to rest his arms. Immediately, Sis, who had been watching his progress like a hawk, dove for the broom. “No! No, Sis, you cannot sweep!” Mister cried. I bristled, and readied my speech about our family’s sharing policy. “No, Sis. You cannot sweep! You don’t have Frocks!” It could have been a sneaky ploy to avoid ‘the policy’, but Mister is usually straight forward, and I think he considered his to be a righteous anger.

There are less innocuous stories to tell of my children’s imitations of me. Just a few days ago I heard Mister asking Sis if she wanted to play a game. “I can’t do that right now, Mister.” She said with a balance of importance and irritation. “Do you see how many things I am working on right now? That sounds fun, but I am very, very busy.” That one gets a PG for sad reality and parental neglect. Suffice to say, these replays come in all ratings.

A few weeks ago, driving with music that feeds my soul cranked for the duel purpose of filling my brain and drowning out the constant barrage of ‘Hey, Moms’ coming from the back, I felt compelled to lift my hands in prayer. I would have closed my eyes too if we hadn’t have been going sixty. Something in the rear-view mirror made me look. Two little hands, one attached to each of my preschoolers were raised in copycat. I think I was asking the Lord to calm my temper. They may have been doing the same. But more likely they were just trying out another one of my kooky behaviors. If only I was more like my Heavenly Father. Then I could sleep soundly at night, knowing these shoes, the ones my children seem intent on growing into, will serve them well on the road ahead.

“Be imitators of God, therefore, as dearly loved children . . .” Ephesians 5:1a