Telling Dad I’m plastic

Here’s a cute little memory that my mom verified for me recently. Dad was a good Irish Catholic and faithfully went to church every Sunday. My mom had been raised a ‘fire-and-brimstone’ Southern Baptist and was not a regular church-goer. Luckily, I was not forced in either direction of faith, and allowed to decide for myself.

One Sunday when I was very small, my Dad kept asking me if I wanted to go to church with him. I ignored him, fully engrossed with some blocks on the floor. As he headed out the door he asked me one more time.

That pushed me over the edge. I looked up, with a very serious expression on my face and said very clearly, as if this was common knowledge, “Daddy, I’m not Catholic, I’m plastic.”

He never asked me to go to church again, but he always chuckled when he told the story.

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