Playground Wars and Baby Prayers

"Scuse me, scuse me," he hollered, squatting back on his Croc-shod feet. Trying to keep an eye on McKenzie climbing her way up to the slide, I glanced over at the little bushy, blonde-haired fellow hailing my attention.

"Make her stop looking at me," he wined. "She's looking at me and I don't like it. Make her stop."

I looked up. McKenzie was sitting on the steps to the slide looking down at him. He was several feet away and a few playground levels down.

I ignored him at first, shocked that a four year old could be so...snooty. His perfectly ironed, white-blouse-black-pants mother sat obliviously shaded behind her stylish dark glasses on the far side of the play area. She clearly wasn't going to be of much assistance.

"She's still looking at me. Tell her to stop," he howled, walking toward me on the climbing equipment.

"You know what, Sweetie," I said slowly and firmly, surprised at my own calmness. "She is not hurting you. You don't need to worry about her. Go play."

He huffed off.

Good riddance.

Suddenly he boomeranged back. Launching another imperative question in my face.

"What's your name?"

My hair bristled. Apparently, this four year old ruled his little world and seemed to think he ruled mine too.

"Mrs. Perrault." I said. Placing strong emphasis on the period at the end.

No argument was available. No room left for questions. Off he scampered to his well-kept mother, no longer king of the playground.

Never in my life have I introduced myself as "Mrs. Perrault," not even when Josh and I taught the first grade Sunday School class when I was pregnant with McKenzie. Usually I am Stephanie or Miss Stephanie. I'm only twenty-five for pity-sake.

But under duress from a four year old, I morphed into Mrs. Perrault. It sounded so grown up. So final. So no-nonsense. And perfectly apropos for a cocky kid trying to throw his weight around at the playground.

It's amazing what motherhood does to you. I never dreamed I'd be ready to wage war on the playground with a domineering kid. Yesterday's incident revealed that I definitely have what it takes. Scary! Hopefully name dropping won't be necessary in my next playground skirmish.

Looking back on the event yesterday, I can laugh, although I'm rather ashamed a four year old so easily raised my ire. In a day or two, I will have completely forgotten it. Another little vignette occurred yesterday evening that I hopefully never will.

After dinner, McKenzie and I were listening to Josh's game on the radio. The team is on the road in Erie, PA and since it's only a three day trip, McKenzie and I stayed here to hold down the fort. I had a feeling Josh was going to pitch last night and was feeling rather nauseous all evening. The Papa John's pizza our host family ordered for dinner didn't help a lot.

It was about 8:30 pm and McKenzie was running around like a banshee throwing her endless supply of baseballs all over the place, running around in circles with her baby stroller, and tripping over my legs every two minutes as I sat on the floor, sick to my stomach, listening to the game. When Josh came on in the 7th inning, I grabbed McK in mid flight and started to pray.

When we are by ourselves, I like to pray out loud so that McKenzie learns the value of bringing all things before the throne of God. I do it sometimes at the games too, whispering my prayers in her ear. I'm sure people think I'm nuts, but that's a different story.

"Lord, please be with daddy as he pitches," I prayed. "Bless him with excellent pitch location, first pitch strikes, good defense. Help him to drive the ball towards the plate and be able to locate his fast ball, his slider and his change-up."

As I ran through my laundry list of pitching prayers, I heard McKenzie's little voice. I looked up and she was standing next to me with her head down, eyes closed saying all the words in her limited vocabulary.

"Daddy...mama...baby...fruff...two...kitty...side...cheese...daddy...ball...daddy."

I smiled and finished my prayer while she entreated the Lord in her own little language.

"Thank you for hearing our prayers, Lord. Amen," I said.

"Aaaa-men," she echoed, lifting her head and breathing out a sigh of relief. A smile radiated across her face.

"Were you talking to Jesus for Daddy?" I asked. She laughed and gave me a big hug.

"Yeah, Daddy," she yelled and ran off to chase her ball.

It was precious beyond words. The Lord heard the prayers of His little one last night, blessing Josh with a wonderful outing. He truly does understand all languages, even the senseless ones of a baby.

In a week, yesterday will be a blur. The bossy little boy on the playground will be a chuckle. I will have forgotten the game and how many pitches Josh threw for strikes and how many guys he struck out. But I will never forget the miracle of my darling child praying in the words she knew for her daddy. And that complete sigh of relief after she was done, as if to say,

"It's all o.k. now. I talked to Jesus."