A car seat advertisement on the baby website claimed, "Nothing is more important that your child's safety."
That's a good selling point.
Really.
What kind of mother could disagree with that statement?
Well...
... Timid hand raised.
Wait. Don't call DHHS on me just yet. Please. It's not that we overlook safety. On the contrary; I've spent enough money on car seats in the past seven years to fund a new car. (Which is why I drive a rusty clunker that needs new tires and air conditioning.) The two year old has had a video monitor trained over his crib since his first day home; we can watch him breathe in his sleep. The boys know not to accept anything from a stranger. There are permanent imprints of baby gates throughout the house; outlet covers, a set temperature on the water heater; even the Oreos are safely out of reach so the kids don't suffer a sugar crash.
They are covered by insurance and fancy band aids. Their finger nails are clipped, their meat is well cooked, most wasp nests have been eradicated from the property, they don't eat yellow snow.
But, really, if safety was paramount, my kids would live in a bubble. They wouldn't
need car seats, because it certainly isn't safe to take them for a ride in a car. Their atmosphere would never be too hot or cold, their air would always be pure, their home would be always be clean and free of paint, germs, and spiders. They wouldn't eat vegetables grown in, gasp, dirt. Or eggs that come from the bottom side of a chicken. Or play with germy other kids. Ever.
Their milk would be ultra pasteurized, their toothbrushes super sterilized; they wouldn't have snotty little brothers.
"Mom," a shrill voice calls from the living room where the three that are too old to nap are supposed to be all cuddled up together watching the Backyardigans while I blog, "Mom, he's breathing on me!"
"What would you rather he do?" I holler back absently.
"Make him stop!"
"I don't think I can do that, Honey."
"But I'll get germs!"
I snicker. "He's a little boy, Son. They're called cooties."
"Noooo!"
Whomp. A pillow hits its target. An even shriller voice screeches. Big brother took matters into his own hands, apparently. I hear the muffled voice of little brother under the pillow. Big brother gets kicked in the ribs. Other brother jumps on top of the pile, because he can. They scuffle. I ignore them until somebody gets mad, then appear in all my big mommy authority and turn off their show. They whine. They get sent outside to play in the dirt.
Crisis averted.
The day that Solomon was crowned king of Israel, his aging father David gave him a command.
Be strong, and prove yourself a man.
I just read that the Knox version of 1 Kings 2 renders it, "Play the man, Son."
He was probably a teenager, as young as 12, no older than 20. He hadn't known that morning when he rolled, tousled and sleepy, out of bed, that he would be sitting on his father's throne by afternoon. But a rebellious older brother had gone out and tried to nab the monarchy for himself. If David hadn't acted quickly, Solomon would have been conveniently killed by evening. Instead, the crown was placed above the cowlick on his head.
Israel was at its zenith, peaceful, strong, and prosperous. Suddenly, it was on his bony shoulders to keep it that way.
David's strongest mighty men of war would fight and die at his command.
Priests and prophets would come to him first with the words of God.
Faraway kings would tremble when they heard of his laws.
Beautiful women would swoon in his presence.
Anything he desired, he could have.
Everything he saw was his to protect.
Heavy.
It was a big day. First, a death sentence, then the monarchy. He would have wished he had shaved that morning, if he'd had anything of substance to take a razor to. The eyes of the nation peered up at him, cheering for him, placing their hope in him. His mother watched him from a corner of the throne room.
A tear trickled down her still-smooth cheek. No longer could she protect him from either hate or adoration from the world. Just yesterday, after an hour studying history from the books of Moses, she'd watched him run out to kick a ball in the courtyard with the other boys. Ruddy, carefree, a dark scab on his elbow where he'd bashed it in the dirt a week before, he'd blushed when a few servant girls wandered by the game, giggling and whispering. Females would be his undoing, if he wasn't careful. She thought ruefully of her own marriage with the old king. It was a lonely existence to be one of the conquests of a great ruler, no matter how much his eyes lit up when he saw you. She hoped she'd gotten through to her son the beauty of what a loving marriage could be.
She clenched her fists. There was so much he still needed to know! He was so young! So much evil he would encounter! Such big decisions would rest in his hands!
With a great sigh, the queen mother relaxed her hands. This child - her child - was a man today. He must be. He would enjoy great happiness. He would suffer much pain. She still had some influence on him, true. She hoped he wouldn't suddenly be too grown up to let her kiss his cheek. Even if she had to stand on tip toe to reach.
But she must let go. There were bigger things than his safety now. Today, she could not play the mother hen. She would stand back. She would watch him be stung. She would watch him reel under the responsibility. She would watch him do wrong. But she would see him also make hard decisions and be right. She would be proud of him.
She already was.
"Play the man, son" she whisperingly echoed his father as she looked at his thin form sitting tall on the great throne.
"Play the man."
She she stepped back into the shadows of the great throne room.
And God took over.
