While we were riding along in our automobile…
(Great. Now THAT song is stuck in my head! Way to go, Chuck Berry!)
…headed to Gymnastics Land, USA this afternoon, the boy piped up from the back seat of the Suburban and asked, “Hey, Mom? Do you know what I really love?”
Thinking that his answer would be something sweet, like “You, Mom; I really love you!” was my first mistake.
“No, honey. What do you really love?”
“I love to light firecrackers and watch them explode! That is one of the best things ever! And do you know what, Mom?”
“No dear. What?”
“I wish that Dad and I had an old, abandoned barn somewhere that nobody used for animals or anything, and I wish that the barn was kind of falling down, and that it was made of really old wood, because I would love to light a piece of TNT and throw it inside, and…KABOOM!!! Wouldn’t that be super cool, Mom? Because the whole thing would just explode, because I’m pretty sure you’d only need one stick of good dynamite to blow up a super old barn that was already kind of rotting and falling down.”
My favorite part in that monologue was the part where he said “one stick of good dynamite.” This would be in direct contrast to…what? A bad stick of dynamite? Would the bad stick be the piece you threw and nothing happened, like in the cartoons?
And then, after I tried to decipher the differences between good and bad TNT, my next thought was this: People, should I be concerned? Is it okay that my third grader seems to be constantly trying to decide how many sticks of good dynamite he’ll need to blow up various structures? And at what point do other parents say to me, “Yeah. We’re just gonna need you to go on ahead and keep the boy away from our children. Mmm’Kay?”