Today, two stories about my son, Reed, as he prepares to begin pre-kindergarten.
First the Y tale.
“Mommy, which weapons can I bring to school?”
(Now, don’t go judging me to be a pistol-packing mama. Our son, despite the fact that we didn’t introduce him to guns, either in toys or in movies, managed to turn everything — a broom, a stick, a playing card, a chicken leg — into a weapon. As a toddler, he had all of his older sister’s babies to play with, but still he would rather form carpet lint into a “shooter.” I’m convinced this behavior is largely hard-wired into that Y ‘zome.)
“Honey, they don’t allow weapons at school.”
“How about I leave my guns at home and bring just swords.”
“No, Sweetie. Schools don’t let you bring guns or swords.”
“Can I bring my light sabers? Just one?”
“No, Honey. Sorry.”
“OK. But school doesn’t sound like much fun. When I come home will you swordfight with me?”
Now the X.
Reed and two friends are playing in the cul-de-sac as I sit on our front step. I see the three of them begin to congregate in the middle of the circle.
“I’m gonna kill it with my gun!” says Will as he rushes in bearing the plastic rifle.
“Let me run over it!” cries Evan, barreling over in his wheelchair.
“No!” shrieks my son. “Don’t kill the roly-poly!” And he puts his body in the way of the poor creature’s would-be tormentors.
I feel like a good mama.