Kids

Angelic Nudists

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Down two flights of stairs and into the living room, she is completely unfazed by her own nudity.

“I can’t find jammies.” She is whining and sprawling and we are blushing at our own offspring. And laughing.

I often ask my kids, “What if Dad and I acted the way you are acting right now?”

I’m here to tell you, if Chase were to do this every time he was frustrated, he’d get whatever he wanted just so the act of disgrace would end.

How are kids so unashamedly comfortable in their own skin?

I suppose nudist colonies would be similar. But where would the personal boundaries start and stop? How does one determine what is appropriate and what isn’t? I don’t think I’d survive long in one, assuming I could ever get past my own moral code. Which I can’t.

It makes me wonder about the trusting, free nature of children. And about “faith like a child.” Humanity began in nudity. Unashamed, free, out there nudity. And it was beautiful.

I wonder if we’ll just be a bunch of undressed innocents in heaven. It might be worth the surrender to get there, just to find out.

 

Gangly Legs and Crimped Hair

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It’s a flat of springs, a weave of cotton, a puff of air, a bubble of water. Sometimes it folds, deflates, or falls out of a wall.  

Ours is burnt orange and taupe, can be digitally changed for comfort, and is the heart of our home. 

Our bed.

Reign in your immaturity for a second and I’ll tell you why I love it.

It was the place I landed as a teenager, all gangly legs and crimped hair, talking with my mom. My mind would wander in as many directions as the stitching on her outdated comforter while she answered my deepest question: Am I worth your time?

It was where I’d hide when moonlight hit the side of my dresser, void of the outline of branches and I couldn’t escape the feeling that something was certainly coming through the window for me.

It’s what cradled my fevering, aching body, and what I rioted against during my toddler years.

And it’s just as valuable to me now.

It got me through three pregnancies.

It is a trampoline when I’m not looking.

It’s where our family assembles into a pile of arms and legs and stuffed animal friends that get us through the night, to embark on a handful of adventures before bedtime.

It’s the place my daughter tells me, with jagged trails of tears on her cheeks, of the shame she’s been carrying over how she treated some of her friends last year in school.

It’s where my son comes face to face with me on his daddy’s pillow and I remember that it wasn’t so long ago he was sucking his thumb.

Tonight it’s the place where delicate pigtail curls hover over sun-grazed shoulders, where a sequence of high and low-pitched voices dripping with childhood are followed by screaming laughs. It’s where there is an unending performance of somersaults, and tickling that will make you lose your breath.

It’s where the only kid at home is queen, and I don’t want this night to end.