At least three of four times a night, I hear the pitter-patter of Bella footsteps. She is very sneaky and climbs up at the end of the bed and shimmies her way up to snuggle beside me and whispers sweet nothings in my ear.
“When I wake up can we go to Chuck E. Cheese?”
It’s always the same. It’s always about The Chuck. The lovely cesspool of child germs and family norwalk virus. Also, her favorite place on earth. So, I do what any awesome half-asleep parent would do, I lie.
“Yes, baby. As soon as you wake up, we can go.”
And she skips back to bed, willingly and quickly falls back into a gross pizza, giant mouse, crusty token slumber, no doubt. I almost feed badly about lying to her. Almost.
Last night, though, when she showed up at my side at 3:07am, she had something different to say.
“Mama. I’m scared.”
“What are you scared of, boots?”
“The burning bush.”
Wait..what?
“You know, that dude? The one in the dress?”
“Isabella?”
“Moses! Remember him, Mama? From the movie? the tree is on fire? And then there’s that scary voice? I’m scared that will happen to me. That I will see the fire and hear the scaaaaaaary man.”
and then I remember. I also giggle a little. Because it’s not the first time I’ve written about one of my daughters and the burning bush…*fire bush* *snicker*
Thank you, Jewish Day School tuition for scarring my child with The Prince of Egypt.
My child is terrified of God.
Brilliant.
But at least she didn’t ask about going to Chuck E. Cheese.
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