Every year about this time, when we’re busy thinking about crucifixion and resurrection and all that miraculous shit, I remember a little conversation I had with my daughter when she was in first grade. It was one of those conversations that catches you completely off guard. And, of course, it was one of those nights that my husband was out of town so I was on my own for this one.
Fortunately, there was wine.
Erin (timidly): “Mom, will I… will I die on the cross?”
Me (sympathetically): “Oh, honey. No. That’s a punishment they did a very long time ago. They don’t do that anymore.”
Erin (clearly relieved): “Oh! Great. Just like I won’t get stoned for having a baby out of wedlock?”