Someone's Drinking the Kool-Aid

Big Sis just appeared in the doorway to the kitchen, arms outstretched to touch the doorjambs, to ask me, while I was on the phone with my BFF:

"Mom, who is our king?"

"Our king? We don't have a king."

"Yes we do, Mom. Who is our king?"

"We don't have a king in America."

"Yes we do, MOM. Who is our king?"

"We don't have a king in America! We don't. We have a president."

"We do have a king, Mom. What is his name?"

"Okay, fine. We have a king. His name is King Elmo the Great."

She looked at me, dropped her arms, and left the room. I resumed my adult conversation on the phone.

A few minutes later I hear, in that endlessly repetitive, robotic, patented way only children can beckon their parents:

"MOM. MOM. MOM. MOM. MOM. MOM..."

(Sighing, and holding the phone against my chest) "Whhhhaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat?"

"GOD IS OUR KING, MOM! GOD IS OUR KING. GOD. IS. OUR. KING."

And here I was thinking I was going to have to explain that our world is not a Disney Princess one, with kings and castles and sleeping beauties. Or that England has kings and the U.S. has presidents.

But no. My daughter, enrolled in a Christian Pre-School, was quizzing me.

And by the Transitive Property of Equality, I appear to have proclaimed King Elmo the Great as My God.