Forgive us our trespasses, and forgive those who trespass against us.

The other day at work I was in a bad mood. I was sleepy, my head hurt, and the children were being much louder than I was wanted. A co-worker noticed me snap at a child, and asked me what was wrong.
I told her I didn't get enough sleep, and that I felt bad for being less patient with the children than I ought to be. She said that this happened to her sometimes, but that this week she was focusing on trying to keep a postive outlook, and that it was working for her so far. I spoke derisively of the power of postivie thinking. She said that she also turned to God for strength to help her when she was unhappy, but that she knew that this wasn't my thing. I told her I was no more comforted by God than I was by the Tooth Fairy. She made a face, and I asked if I had offended her. She told me that no, I hadn't, but that I might have offended God. I told her I hoped that both God and the Tooth Fairy would forgive me in time for my harsh words. We bowed our heads in silent prayer to our respective deities, and later when I got to have Chipotle for dinner, I knew that the Tooth Fairy had listened, and that I had found favor in her sight.
Praise the Tooth Fairy, for she is great, and with her anything is possible.

The lows to which we have collectively sunk.

"Where is the Subway?" a woman asks.
"Prime Rib is the uber-meat," chirps a scruffy overweight young man.
"It's got a lot of meat, and that's what real women need!" giggles a young woman.
I will never eat in a Quizno's again.

The Nicest Person I Know

I am on the playground, talking to a seven year old girl with a severe speech impediment. It is difficult to describe her speech problem because it is so complicated. That she pronounces her K's as T's, as in the Buckwheat-ian "Otay" is but one small component of the problem. Another is her horrible grammar, stuff like "Him are eating gum." It has taken me a long time to be able to talk with this girl, and am now able to only because she is making such good progress in her speech therapy. We are talking about bugs, specifically a new group of them that have infiltrated the sandbox, keeping this girl from her favorite part of the playground. She is not angry though. She is almost never angry, and then usually for short periods of time. She wishes she could be in the sandbox, but she doesn't blame the bugs. Neither does she blame me for making her stay away from the bugs. She has moved on. For someone with so many difficulties she is surprisingly mature.
"Prudence stepped on a bug," she tells me.
"That was mean. Why did she?"
"I don't know. She didn't like him I guess. She shouldn't have done it."
"When did she do that?"
"Before snack, on the sidewalk. I told her not to, but she doesn't listen."
"No, Prudence doesn't listen much. Nor, for that matter, do you."
"I know."
"Why is that?" I ask her, "Why is it that right now we can have a nice talk, but then when I make announcements to the group later you won't listen? You lie on your back and kick your feet in the air. Why do you do that?"
She doesn't have to think for more than a second.
"Because I don't care."
"About what I'm saying?"
"About games, or going first."
"Do you think you could pretend to care? You don't have to really care, just pretend so I won't get my feelings hurt?"
"Okay."
And she hugs me and runs away. Later as I announce what rooms are open I see her in the back of the room sitting quietly with her hands in her lap. She cares more about hurting my feelings than going first.

Spring Break

It is Spring Break, and the children run every where, screaming, giddy, snot-bedecked. Somewhere a little girl is crying.
"What is wrong, Little Girl?"
"Becky won't let me be the pony. She said I had to be the pony's mother, and I want to be the pony."
"No child, you are not the pony's mother. You are her friend, the much better looking, more popular pony who makes the first pony secretly jealous and ashamed. You are a show pony. Becky, as soon as she is old enough, will be hitched to a plow and spend the rest of her life tilling the fertile soil so that her master may earn a meager living from the sweat of her brow."
"What is fertile soil?"
"Dirt with poop in it."
"Oh."
As the little girl runs to tell Becky about the new rules they will play by I look over the rest of the playground, the sun setting tranquilly behind the swings. "It's good for children to cry," I think. "Crying builds character."