Nobody has tougher questions about religion than little kids. Adults don’t have time to ponder the universe. We are too busy worrying about the mortgage. But little kids—they got time.
Really though, my parents got off easy, considering they provided no formal spiritual guidance of any kind.
I think I was 10 when I asked my Dad what religion we actually were. I know you think 10 must be awfully old to not know the answer to this question, but we lived in South Florida, land of synagogues, Santeria, and Yankees. And there were plenty of kids playing four square in the middle of the street on Sunday mornings instead of going to church. My Dad is the type of dad you can ask serious questions as long as you are prepared for a lengthy professorial answer, but I think I completely caught him off guard.