Letting

I think the word let is very interesting.  If I say it over and over in my brain it sounds funny.

I like control.  Who doesn't?

But last Sunday all the children minus the two year-old transitioned into new classes.
I worked from the basement up, which meant the fifth grader was last.  His class
is now on the third level.

I told him where his class was and tried to send him up on
his own, but he wanted me to go.  So I did.

When we got there I automatically bent over and with pen in hand began looking for his name on the roster to check him in.

The Sunday School teacher looked at me peculiarly and said she thought he could probably do that himself.

Yeah.  She's right.  I laugh at myself, smile and hand Conner the pen.

She's right.  I watch my four year-old try to get the canned cherries
out of the quart jar by herself.
I can see the spoon angled wrong and know the cherries will not stay on.
I squirm inside, bite my tongue, pick up the cherry that rolls under my chair and let her do it.

We sit around the table, all seven of us, snapping beans
and trying to remember all the details of the story The Emperor's New Clothes.  
What exactly did the pretend tailors say to get the Emperor to believe that he was wearing clothing?
All the while, Timmy at two sits and seriously snaps those beans.

He doesn't get how to put the ends in the other bucket, but he is snapping those beans into little pieces and he's as part of the family as any of us.

We love it.  I let.