God is Really Good

Pamela Tracy here, and yes, I am the mother of a five-year-old. It's exhilarating and exhausting. See, he's in kindergarten now and I'm lurking in the background always aware of the ole "How is he doing?" critiques.
Have I ever mentioned that I used to be an elementary schoolteacher? More specifically, I taught kindergarten. Since Mike's birth, I've daydreamed of his entering school already knowing how to read, with beautiful penmanship, no desire whatsoever to wriggle in his seat, and polite. Oh, yes, my son would be polite.
For the last five years, BK (before K), we've gone camping, built train worlds, loved anything Spiderman, watched a million episodes of Scooby Doo, put together puzzles, dug in the dirt, went for walks/rides/ and chased each other with nerf guns.
Whenever I brought out the handwriting papers, Mike turned up his nose. Coloring? "Here's two scribbles, Mom. Good enough?" Getting him to write his name was comparable to getting me to eat green peas: very painful.
Now, he's in kindergarten, and I'm pleased. He's writing his name, learning the ABC's and their sounds, adding outloud, and coloring.
Guess what? He's not at the head of the class.
But that class is behind a door and has twenty little people who all have mother's lurking behind them all worrying about the "How is he/she doing?" critique.
Yesterday, while sitting at the table, my son took a pencil and wrote Good.
I'm sure he saw it on a paper!
Then, he wrote God.
Okay, so I'm looking at a phrase, an interjection if you will: Good God.
He wasn't done. He wrote Good again.
I'm looking at him, and finally said. "Good God good?"
"Yup," he said with confidence. "I wrote good twice because God is really good."
I'm no longer a kindergarten teacher. I'm now an English professor; have been for years.
My son is the next John Grisham.
Ya think?