Call a therapist–or a priest–or someone. The Maiden thinks that she is God.
OK, technically she’s been playing that she’s Jesus. Not as in doing sermons and knocking over money tables and letting the little children, etc., but as in she’s Jesus and is going around wearing robes and doing normal stuff like reading and art.
Normal play-acting, you say? Not quite. The problem is, the Maiden goes beyond play-acting. She doesn’t merely pretend to be Jesus. She is, like, the Savior. The actual Jesus. And we have to refer to her as such.
I can handle the gender bending. After we watched Toy Story 3, the Maiden was Andy for a week and a half. And by being “Andy,” I do not mean that she was a girl pretending she was a boy. She was actually a boy. S/he had fits about wearing her/his school uniform skirts, and we had to be careful about pronouns or risk being constantly, patiently corrected by our imaginary son. And I hope some future therapist doesn’t castigate me for telling the Maiden she was a “good boy.” It was all his fault– I mean hers.
Thank goodness she kept using the toilet the right way.
Anyways, in the light of all that, remembering to call our own Jesus “he” rather than “she” was no big deal.
But it was a little weird. Screaming across the yard, “Jesus! What are you doing? Get back in here!” sounded a little off-color in our family-friendly neighborhood.
And then when we said grace before eating, “Jesus” looked at us smugly in the expectation that we would address our prayers to him. Her. Whatever.
You’d think that having the Son of God as your kid would have some good points, though. Like behavior, and cleaning up without being asked, and no begging for one more snack– yet we were one-upped on that, too. Because when the Man told the Maiden it was time for bed, “Jesus” informed him that she/he didn’t have to listen because he wasn’t her real father.
I just hope she’s pushed past the Messiah complex phase before church on Sunday . . .