In church today the scripture reading was the parable about the Prodigal Son. When the reader got to the part about how the younger son asked his father for his share of the inheritance early then squandered it all with prostitutes and drunkenness and wild living, Ryan and I looked at each other and mouthed "Wes," then snickered silently behind our bulletins.
And then I felt really, really bad. Sure Wes is kind of crazy, but he's so sweet! No one is cuddlier, no one more eager to help. He's friendly! And polite! But bedtime is kind of a problem, and sometimes he lies down and screams in parking lots, but he's a good boy. Usually. And he's only three (but don't tell him that, he thinks he's four and if you tell him otherwise he FLIPS OUT). No, Wes isn't the Prodigal Son. Definitely not. He'd never shame the family like that, I don't think.
When I had finished mentally chastising myself for casting Wes as the antagonist in a Biblical parable, I smiled warmly and turned to face him, my heart full of tenderness. He walked over to me, from the spot he favors waaaaaaaaaay at the end of the pew, then made a strange face and reached into his mouth with his fingers.
And pulled out two staples.
That he'd chewed out of his Sunday School art project.