A, for all his challenges, is one helluva kid. He’s developing a sense of humor (let it be known that his first accurate pun was on Christmas Day 2008) and really has no shame. He is seven years old, ya know. One of his very best friends is our pastor’s son. As the two of them have the exact same initials, he’ll be known here as A2.

Now, I have to explain about me and churchy things. I did not grow up in a church and only started going, somewhat reluctantly, when Tom and I married. ‘Twas important to him, so I went. And have continued going. I enjoy it, I get to play music there, it’s a community that Tom and I appreciate, especially with our family so far away. But I’ve never felt totally comfortable, feeling more like an impostor than anything. So it’s unusual to me to have a pastor about my age, with a son my son’s age, who is a “regular person.” I seem to think they should always be older, with white hair, and that I should hold them in the highest regard, but I digress. A and A2 are great buddies, have a lot in common including food allergies, and so Tom and I have gotten to know the pastor and his wife fairly well.

Yesterday A was invited over to A2’s house for the afternoon. I had an appointment in Boulder at 4, they were having dinner a block away at 5, so they brought A with them and I grabbed A and took him home. A2’s mom relayed a conversation they had in the car on the way.

A2: (mumble, mumble, ladder)

A2’s mom: A2, did you just say bladder?

A2: no, mom, I said ladder

A: yeah, bladder is the thing that’s connect to your wiener and nuts.

Right there, in the car, with the pastor and his wife.

I can’t make this stuff up.

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