Little Biggun is my five-year-old daughter, as most who might be taking a look here know. She's a character, ornery and verbose. Conversations with her can be like trying to read Camus while drunk, with a Faulkner audiobook playing in the background. I'll let the dialogue below speak for itself. She walked into the dining room, where I was trying to work on revisions for a crime noir story about my bad girl, Rose Holmes, for an anthology called Lucky 13.
Her: Daddy, I have a question I've wondered my whole life.
Me: What? And your whole life, huh?
Her: Well, since I was, you know, God-birthed.
Me, laughing: What is it?
Her: Why did God make us?
Me: God made us in the image of himself.
Her: Did God have a big beard like you? And blue eyes like us?
Me (having creepy Hitler thoughts): I don't know. But that means he had an appearance like people, like all people, I guess.
Her: But why did he make us?
Me: Maybe he . . . uh . . . was lonely.
Her: But he had a Mary-wife and Jesus.
Me: Well, he had Jesus as a son--Mary wasn't his wife, she was Joseph's.
Her: But God and Mary had a baby.
Me: Not the way a mama and daddy do it. This was more like magic. It's called an immaculate conception.
Her: Like magic sex?
Me, starting to sweat a lot: YOU KNOW WHAT SEX IS?
Her: Just having a baby together.
Me: That's right.
Her: How could God be lonely? He had all the animals before he made people.
Me: I guess he couldn't talk to them.
Her: Da-aaaad, God could talk to animals. He's God.
Me: I guess you're right.
Her: But people can't talk to them.
Me: Maybe a little with dolphins and monkeys, but not really, no.
Her: How do people do that? Talk with them?
Her: But I bet God can talk to all of them!
Her: Science is stupid.
Me: Some is, some isn't.
Her: Why doesn't God talk to us?
Me: He may listen when he can, when we pray. He's busy.
Her: Busy doing what?
Me: I really have to go to the bathroom.
Her, from the other side of the bathroom door: Dad! Why did God give boys and girls different pee-ers?!