Seven hours

On Saturday, I took Aidan to the science museum here in town.  It was a pretty spectacular day--we got to see exhibits, a double feature of imax films, and a local meterologist.

On a side note, the meterologist, who's been on TV as far back as I can remember (which is saying something), asked Aidan whether he'd seen his forecasts.  Aidan's reply?  "Yes!  Sometimes my daddy turns it on, but I don't really like it."  Sorry.

So, we're walking down the stairs an hour past Aidan's naptime, and I tell him that I think he's tired and we should go home now.  "Who really cares what you think, anyway?"  Really?  His punishment is normally to sit on the stairs, and since we were on some already, I had him just sit down where he was.  He kept saying, "Sorry!  Sorry!  Sorry!"  They know.

Seven hours later, I'd been dumped for basketball.  We had tickets to the theater, but I took my sis so that Steven could watch the tournament.  No problem.  He was putting Aidan down for bed and came into the room to see Aidan kneeling in the middle of the bed, praying to Jesus (not an everyday event).  Steven heard something like, "help bring her home safely."  He asked Aidan what he was doing, and found out that he was praying for my safe return - you know, as though I'd gone off to war the year before.  He said, "Aidan, she's only been gone two hours!"  "Oh, Daddy--it seems like forever!  I just hope Jesus brings her home safe to me.  I miss her so much."

Okay, that's undeniably cute.  Really, though?  Really?  In the same span who really cares what I think anyway and also please, Jesus, please bring her back home to me?  Okay....