We’re in the car the other day and I’m listening to the kids in the back. They are doing copious amounts of wet, sloppy, phlegmy raspberries into thin air. Over and over again. Little spit bombs exploding all over the backseat of the car. Then I hear the Peanut say, “Pumpkin Man. Catch them! Catch them!”
I manage a glance over my shoulder, something I’m loathe to do as I really don’t like to get involved back there. I hazard a glance and I see fine, fine sprays of saliva in the air, the kids hands clapping madly through it, trying to make a catch. Awesome.
“What are you doing?” I say.
And the Peanut answers, “Daddy, we’re catching stars!” I can’t argue with that.
Also, this is why I’m an atheist. Childhood turns spit into stars, and I’m supposed to be impressed by some half-assed water into wine trick? Please.
A version of this first appeared on Musings from The Big Pink.