Theology of the Body

Last night, Cody and had what I have come to think of as a "level-setting" date night. Every so often, he really just gets in his own way. Anxious, cranky, needy, whiny. (These are a few of my favorite things....) He wakes up more ornery than he went to bed, and nothing I try can shake him out of his mood. I've learned that what he usually needs is just alone time with me. No sharing me with anyone. We go do something special--spend the morning in Old Town, go to the bookstore, whatever. He just needs it, and then his heart settles, and he rights his own ship.

We've been reading this book called God Gave Us Christmas, the short version of which is that the little bear cub asks his mom where to find God, and she tells him God is everywhere, and she will take him out into nature to show him. She says they will leave the little ones with Papa Bear and go off together. So last night, I suggested we take an evening adventure to St. Matthew's Cathedral, which he dearly loves. He started quivering and shouted, "Just you and me? Let's leave the little one with Papa and go off together to look for God!' We had a fabulous time. We sat right in the front row and heard the contemporary choir and saw some old friends. Cody was great, and we found God in the dome of the cathedral, the voices of the choir, the snowflakes on the ground. He brought his Mary statue with him, and as an added bonus, Monsignor Jameson blessed her (and Cody). We even got a quick visit to Cody's favorite sculpture:

It was, all in all, a perfect outing.

Until we got outside, and Cody tripped on the slippery sidewalk and dropped Mary. He was fine. She was...not. Quite. Faithful readers may remember how my own Mary statues have lost their rather delicate hands over the past few years. Well, we can add another handless Virgin to the mix. What in my mind was par for the course turned into something completely traumatic for my sensitive little child. It went something like this:

CJP: Her hands! Mommy her hands are broken!

Me: Buddy. Don't worry! It's going to be okay. I don't know that Mary even needs her hands that much. My Mary's hands are broken, too, remember? And she doesn't even miss them.

CJP, hysterically: I am worried! Why would she not need her hands? How will she lift things up without her hands? How will she pray without her hands?

a passerby: Good luck with the theology of that one.

Me, still desperately trying to just fix things, instead of really listening: She can pray with her voice and her heart. Hands are incidental. Also, do you remember the bookstore where we bought her? We could also get another Mary.

CJP: I do not want another Mary! I need this Mary! She needs her hands! I cannot stop crying!

At this point, I try very hard to remember the wisdom of How to Talk so Kids will Listen and Listen so Kids will Talk. And to remember what it was like to be little, and anxious, and heartbroken over a cherished object. The best I could come up with was:

Me: I can hear you are very concerned right now. You feel so upset about this, and I can really understand why.

CJP: I am very concerned! And frustrated. Her hands! It is my fault! I should not have brought her out of my room! Now she has NO HANDS!

So much for settling his heart with our evening adventure. I soon realized this was in no way going to be brushed off. He will be obsessing about this until she is restored. Which will take some doing. It hit me that this could be one of those things that, if I didn't handle it right, could deeply upset him. Probably scar him. I mean, look, ma, no hands.

So I took a deep breath and started making stuff up, all under the rubric of, "We're just going to work the problem." I explained that in the morning, I would "start making some calls." (For who? For what?) And that I would figure out a way to track down her hands, and hopefully have them sent to us, and then get some superglue, and reattach her missing appendages, and make her all better. Gradually, he calmed down, and began asking for more specifics: Who exactly would I call? Which postman would come to deliver the hands? What if no one could find the hands on the sidewalk? How long, exactly, would this all take? I assured him that it would take awhile. And that the best thing to do would be to take a deep breath, try to let go of our worries, and just focus on working the problem. His reply:

CJP: I am going to be frustrated every day until Mary's hands are back in...my hands?

Me: That's perfectly understandable. This is one of those situations where we can be frustrated and try to also be patient at the same time.

CJP: What if Mary's body breaks? That would be a disaster! We would cry!

Me: Yes. We probably would. But it didn't. So let's just work this one problem.

CJP: Okay Mommy. We will work the problem. We will make some calls and then talk to the postman and then get some glue and....

And on and on. Forty-five minutes later, as we pulled in the driveway, we were still working out the specifics and timing of just how, exactly, we would work the problem. Which is what I need to go do...right now. Wish me luck.

Ave Maria(s), Mater Dei(s), ora pro nobis. Even though you only have two hands and half a crown among the four of you, I trust you don't need them to do that whole miracle thing you're so good at.

(Last night's casualty: bottom left.)