Every day on the way home from work/pre-school, Little Boy and I drive past the grandiose Boston Mormon Temple. It’s located next to the exit that we take to get off Route 2, and Little Boy has come to recognize it as a landmark that we are almost “Home!” he sings. In the past week, he has expressed sudden, great curiosity about the temple.
“Is it someone’s home?” he asked.
“No, it’s a church,” I replied.
Since Mr. P and I are not church-goers, he associates church with his grandparents in Pennsylvania, who have taken him to their Lutheran church. So he knew all about church.
“People in church wear nice shirts!” he said.
Then, “Who go to that church?”
I then explained that Mormons went to that church, and for some reason he latched onto this word — “Mormon” — more readily than he assimilates higher priority and oft-repeated words like “America,” “Ethiopia,” “shoulders,” “playground,” and “wipe.” He began pointing to the golden, horn-bearing man atop the spire of the temple and saying “Mormon man!”
Today he was very excited, for tomorrow is his 4th birthday. He was enthralled to be going home; one more sleep, and then presents! Cake! Pizza! When we drove past the temple, he was buzzing, “Mormon man! It’s the Mormon man! I love the Mormon man! I love, love, LOVE the Mormon man! Yeh, Mormon man!” And on, and on. Cute. And freaky.
