Epiphany! I’ve come up with a television show that will be spot on for L. The O.G. “Star Trek.” Campy, science-y, funny, action-y, and most importantly, no blood.
I begin describing when it was made (“Did they even have television back then?”), and that it’s an awesome, cool show that I think he’ll like. I zero in on “The Trouble with Tribbles” episode because it’s… well, of course, it’s my favorite. Cute, furry little creatures (they could be easily itty bitty wee ponies, little girl crack).
We start watching a 10 minute segment and L says, “This is silly. This is not anything like the new one. The special effects are lame.”
I am bereft.
Cue to later in the afternoon. I pick L up from school. He has a drawing in his hand.
WHAT? CAN IT BE? YES! (Fist pump.)
The drawing is a schematic rendering of a Tribble, their size, the sounds they make, “fun facts.” I’m elated. (And, I forgive his spelling errors.)
We get home and he says, “say, can we watch the whole episode? I realize something. I think the old Star Trek is cooler than the new one. Because you get to see people’s expressions and Spock is awesome and really smart.”
I have done my job.
We have a mandate in our house: Always tell the truth. You will not be punished for telling the truth. There may be consequences, but telling the truth is paramount.
Okay, got that outta the way.
How about bending the truth?
I’m not proud about this, but these things that may occur in the near future:
–L’s Nerf gun may “go missing.” (A pox on them… Yeah, I’m a chick, I don’t get it.)
–L’s Hoodie, (which I wisely purchased in white and is now stained, soiled, disgusting no matter how many times I wash it) may get “lost” on laundry day.
–L’s newest pet, Tofu the Tadpole, may end up going through his metamorphosis “outside.” In a bucket. (He seems so cute now. In a few weeks he’ll be a giant, loud, jumping all over the place bullfrog. Not gonna happen.)
–The ‘Captain Underpants’ Opus may be “donated.” (They’re past tense at this point. Why not share the love?)
Walk the talk takes a pause.
L and I walked to school today. We were discussing games we would invent. I rambled on about my Greek Myth-based adventure wherein the player meets each of the gods and must answer riddles, solve problems, and, sure we can throw in a duel (not really), to move ahead. I ginned up some poorly disguised multiplication word problem and L said:
“WAIT. That’s a math game. You’re trying to sell me on this idea when it’s really about math?”
“That’s not exactly action/adventure.”
“Why do you want your game to be about math?”
“That’s a ridiculous answer. That makes no sense.”
M: ‘Because’ is a good answer. As in why did you climb the mountain? Because it was there.
“Again, a ridiculous answer. You climb the mountain because you WANT to climb the mountain. That’s the answer.”
And therein lies our existential crisis of the day.
L had a buddy hang out for a few days during his spring break. I had to leave early and drove his buddy home from our Spring Break casa. Hugs were exchanged by all.
L hugged his buddy and said, “I love you.”
Buddy: Hmmm… mmmkay.
L: “I, uh, love you like a brother. You know, I like/love you.”
L: “Or, you know, I think you’re great and thank you for coming.”
Buddy: Me, too.
Some ramblings from last night:
L: “I think L and I broke up. I think we’re better as friends.”
M: “You broke up? Broke up from what? What do you mean?”
L: “Well, she was crushing pretty hard on me and I really like her, but in the end, I think we’ll be friends.”
L: “So now, I’m thinking about C only I think she likes V and I’m not sure I’ll get anywhere with that.”
M: “Where is ‘anywhere?'”
L: “You know, when you like someone. LIKE like.”
M: “I think you and dad are going to have that talk sooner rather than later.”
L: “Oh, gross. Do we have to?”
Had a flashback this morning.
The Setting: Oscar broadcast, 2005 (I think).
The Presenter: Salma Hayek. I believe L is on the verge of walking, is still sporting diapers, and is quite mobile.
He crawls/scootches/drags himself to the television set, hoists himself up and plants a giant, wet, all-in kiss on Miss Hayek while she’s trilling about “Best….”
Did my unsullied, innocent cherub just French Salma Hayek?
Why, yes. Yes he did. (Good taste.)