Praying doesn’t come naturally to me. I’m way too analytical and methodical. I’d rather “do it myself,” even though I feel somewhat inadequate when I wander the aisles at Home Depot. I’ve been called a “control freak” and a recovering “perfectionist.” I accept the assessment and aggressively try to help my family live with my obvious flaws. If you’re smiling, you know what I mean. Self analysis aside, our family gathers at Jackson’s bedside each night to express our gratitude for the day’s events and each member of our immediate family (moms, dads, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, etc.). The benediction follows a familiar pattern of, “thank you for our home and family, protect both, in Jesus’ name we pray, amen.”

When prayer time concludes, Jackson occasionally launches into a litany of love statements directed at one or both of us. Though he engages in this practice regularly, we find some of his affectionate associations priceless. One evening, Jackson said, “I love you more than the Titanic, but not more than the black hole.” We feigned comprehension and said “Aw, thank you, Jackson.” Recently, he reached beyond the normal range of eccentricity and stated matter-of-factly, “Mom, I love you more than the Civil War.” When a five year old references the Civil War as the benchmark for his amorous expressions, there’s only one reasonable response. LOL! As a parent, I have no explanation for this historically-based, existential proclamation. Like all statements to this effect, we gushed with bewilderment and pride . . . or something like that.

But as every parent knows, our exalted estimation suffered a stinging setback. Less than 24 hours later, Jackson downgraded our status and deemed us “the worst parents ever.” Yes, those are quotation marks. Apparently, the stress of having to brush his teeth proved too much for our delicate parent-child relationship. As my mother-in-law commented, “Welcome to the rest of the world.” I stared at Jackson and smugly cited the Civil War as a reference to our current predicament. With an animated huff, he refused to acknowledge the connection and stomped into his bedroom. Ah, the spoils of war.

In a few days, we’ll unleash this prodigy (how every parent refers to his offspring) on a roomful of other Kindergarten students and their fearless teacher. I’m holding my breath . . . and my belly. There will be numerous additions to our prayer list and an expanded field of love references. “Mom, I love you more than the smelly janitor at school.” Or, “Dad, I love you more than the principal’s office.” Principal’s office!? Time to go pray . . . and brush up on the details of the Spanish-American War.