"Whose do you think would win, Dad?" he asked, eternal collector of surveyed responses from random hypothetical questions that he is.
"I don't know. Mine is more for reconnaissance and quick escapes," I explained. "They'd probably be on the same side...working together against the bad guys," I continued. "Mine could outrun alot of lasers and bombs, so it doesn't really have to shoot back, so yours is probably more dangerous," I added, giving him the satisfaction of thinking that he had built a superior weapon of, dare I say, mass destruction.
"Do you need some help with yours?" he offered, showing concern, not wanting frustration to set in for someone of my advanced age, minimal aptitude, and limited skills in the art of Legonomics.
What a kind, considerate kid he is, I thought, trying to block out the vision of a race he and his sister and cousin (who's 8 months older than him, but half his size if she's lucky) had the other day when, coming down the home stretch, neck and neck, he glanced to the side, struggled to fight the evil grin that would quickly take over his face. before subsequently hip-checking his sister, sending her flailing off balance into her little cousin, the both of them breaking stride so as to not run into a tree as he crossed the finished line with arms raised triumphantly overhead.
"I'm okay," I said, and then reconsidered sensing that he couldn't wait to get his hands on what I had built. I indulged him, handing it over reluctantly, imagining that I could hear the shrieks of the passengers on my ship as I handed them over to the the spacecraft eating giant. Not one that has yet mastered the art of whispering, tip-toeing or negotiating his way through close quarters unscathed, no one will mistake his dexterity for that of a surgeon at this point. I knew the retractable wings were probably going to fall off, but they were pretty well re-inforced and easy to snap back on. It was just a Lego space ship, not the end of the world if it meets an untimely demise in the form of a hardwood floor.
Then we played air hockey. After dispensing of my daughter, he and I had a battle for the ages. I think this kid would knock over his grandmother to win a game. I could see the wheels turning in his head as he searched for ways to outfox me. I finally put him out of his misery, 9-8. He said we were supposed to go to 10, but the scoreboard on the table went to 9, and it was bedtime, so that was it. I hurried outta there like the referree that didn't call the foul as the home team's best player was molested on the final shot.
What a joy it is to be 8 years old! Your life is a montage of Legos, air hockey, stuffed animals, cereal with cartoon characters on it (okay...I still get down with some Cocoa Puffs on occasion, but that's beside the point.) Somebody cooks for you. Somebody cleans. Somebody buys your food and your clothes. School is pretty fun. All of your friends are there,you get recess and it lets out while the sun is still shining. And the vacations! It's practically like working in Europe, but better, since you not only get August off, but June and July as well, and most of December. You get to write a Chrismas list instead of being the one that has to read and furnish the requests. You have money that is your money. Take this recent exchange for instance.
"Oooh!! Dad! We've got a great idea! Why don't you get mom a Starbucks gift card, and it can be from us?" my kids urged excitedly, supremely satisfied with themselves as if they've just come up with a new, infallible foreign policy for peace in the Middle East.
"So,...you want me to buy it?" I said, with all of the suspicion of Billy Ray Valentine, tempted by Randolph and Mortimer Duke with the new house, new clothes, new car and new job. "With my money...right?" I continued.
"Yes," they said, smiles shining brightly enough to illuminate an NFL football stadium.
"And you're going to give me the money later, with that $200 you've got saved?" probing now, to see exactly from whence they were coming.
"No...," with the puzzled countenance of Scooby Doo. "You can pay for it."
"That's what I thought," I mumbled to no one in particular.
Youth is truly wasted on the young. No 8-year old really realizes how good life is for them, being far too consumed with things that they can't yet do, and wanting to be Big and rich (so they can buy all the toys they ever wanted, not yet clouded by the bling and associated popularity of faux wealth that is lobbed in their direction--correction, fired like an automatic weapon at them--from every media outlet). It doesn't get any better than being the first to say "Not it!" or "Shotgun" or to choose the prettiest gal from the pages of the magazine on the coffee table to be your wife before your friend does, or getting the "half" that's bigger than your sister's "half" of something that your mother told you to split.
"And Mama used to say...take your time, young man"
"And Mama used to say...don't you rush to get old..."
Junior
1 comment:
Hilarious! Gotta love being 8! Must get his competitiveness from his padre.
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