Shadrach, Meshach, and Malaprop

If I knew anything about babies prior to having a child, I knew that during the first five years of their lives their brains are little sponges, which is why these are considered the crucial formative years for our offspring.

As May approaches, we are about to enter the 5th year with our little sponge-head, and, so far, she has given us quite a demonstration on exactly how much information she can soak in. I've come to embrace the sponge analogy that is most frequently used to describe the brains of our little ones. In fact, I can take it a step further: not only are 0-5 year-olds absorbing everything around them, but like a real sponge, the information doesn't always come back out the same way it went it. So with a good hard squeeze of the sponge, the water comes out looking murkier or even mixed in with unknown particles. Sometimes when my Charley Anne gets a firm squeeze, her absorbed contents pour out that unique blend one can only get after swiping a publicly-shared microwave oven. You just never know what all has been spilled in there. 

Since March, Charley has taken an intense interest in reading her Bible. Her nightly readings may be partially responsible for her recent tantrum over not being able to physically see Jesus in her bedroom when she needed help to stop crying. It has been nice, though, to hear her discuss and ask questions about the Bible. I am impressed at how well her Bible keeps the stories perfectly age-appropriate - even for my kid who almost turned a question about Mary's baby-daddy into a complete discussion about where babies come from and/or an episode of Maury...Joseph, you are NOT the father! 

Additionally, our Spring Break trip to Tennessee intensified Charley's already existing love for music. After seeing a few live performances, she has taken a particular interest in the twangy sounds of bluegrass and folk. This has prompted me to play a little more Sara Watkins, Nickel Creek, Old Crow Medicine Show and Punch Brothers on our daily commutes. It's not much, but it's an enormous win for me. I may have to give up Bob and Tom in the AM, but at least I am not listening to Beiber, Nicki Minaj, or those god-awful Kids Bop CDs that pretend like it is totally normal for a 7-year-old to belt out "I Set Fire to the Rain." Ummm, please tell me how 1st graders can relate to tormenting love.

And this is where it gets tricky. 

As we rode home from Tennessee, I played a few tunes for Charley. She really latched on to "Wagon Wheel," or "Rock Me" as she mostly calls it. We still listen to that song. A lot. Do you know how many times you can listen to "Wagon Wheel" in a 45 minute commute from work to home? A lot. Other than the chorus, she has a few lyrics she loves to scream from teh backseat: "I pray to God I see headlights" and "He was headed west from the Cumberland Gap to Johnson City, Tennessee." (Amazingly, it is not "I caught a trucker outta Philly/ Had a nice long toke"). I know that she really likes the latter line because it specifically references Tennessee and she loves to talk about her family trips to Tennessee.

But pray to God I see headlights? I could never really get that one? 

Initially, I assumed that due to her recent conversations about God, she was just relating to OCMS for their recognition of God. (God? I know him!!) But she actually almost went Buddy-the-Elf on me when she heard him say the line. With her surprised face, "Mom! Did you hear that? Did you hear them? Pray to God! Headlights!"

So as the official English teacher of the car I did what I am best at and sucked all the fun out of the song by interpreting. I go into an explanation of how "praying for headlights" is another way of saying "I hope a car passes by soon." To which she cluelessly nods and continues to pick her nose, not caring one bit about what I just said. 

Fast forward to Monday.

I pick Charley up from school and get the usual 'smh'-look from her teacher. "Oh no. What did she do this time?" 

With a laugh she says, "She has been talking about dying and heaven all day. She kept telling people they have Jesus in their hearts."

"Ummm-yeah. She gets pretty passionate about heaven and angels and God." 

"Yeah. She told us all about the story of Shadrach, Meshach & Abendego."

"Oh, yeah. She's all about that fiery furnace." (So that may have got me on the short list of parents who need a visit from Child Protective Services).  

Of our friends and family, Gary and I are the least likely to be voted Most Likely to Raise a Evangelical-Bible-Thumping Daughter. Even so, I want to handle the conversation with her teacher and with her very carefully.  I had absolutely no issues with what she was talking about. I think it's kinda cool. Actually, it's awesome. So on our car ride home, I probed her regarding the day's events just out of curiosity. 

She rambled on about many of her favorite stories and then requested that we listened to "Wagon Wheel" - of course. As I fumbled with the cord for the iPhone, she continued her sermon and concentrated on her favorite fire tale trio. I'm half listening as she declares that Wagon Wheel is about God's people. Say what? And with utter disgust at my offensive ignorance, she throws up her hands and exclaims, "Headlights!" 

I'm lost. But quickly assume that she is not hearing the line correctly. "No Charley. He says 'I pray to God...' not people of God." The singing begins and she could care less about my explanations. Glad I can end my day with as much teaching success as I have throughout my day. 

About two "Wagon Wheels" later it hits me. Bless her heart. 

God's people. 

Headlights. 

Israelites.

Her Bible's exact words are "Israelites are God's people." All this time Charley thought ol' Ketch was praying to God he saw Israelites on his trek to North Caroline. Maybe he would have after that nice, long toke.

We have one more year to prime our kid's brain and build the foundation her future depends upon.  I resolve to be a little more careful with the scope and sequence at which I let her encounter new material. The last thing I need is for her to confuse Tom Petty's Mary Jane for the Virgin Mary doing a final waltz "once last time to kill the pain" of childbirth.