 WE GOTTA GET THIS GUY TO A HOSPITAL. | Neither my wife nor I hunt. Truth to tell, both of us have always been a little nervous about gun-love. Let’s face it: we’re tenderfoots. We think disagreements are supposed to be worked out with words. Our son is our firstborn. We had some vague idea that his world would be a safe and loving one, where everything is made of puffy clouds, all animals only want to lick and cuddle, and cars are miraculous spaceships that zoom effortlessly to Grandma and Grandpa’s house and back. He and I used to spend hours with Legos, even when he barely had the motor skills to fit them together. I winced when I first heard him make that explosion sound with his mouth as he collapsed a wall with his tiny fist. Then came the minifigures, and with them came personalities. And with the personalities came disagreements. “I think I want this guy to shoot this other guy,” he announced to me one day. I wondered to myself, “How does he even know about guys shooting other guys? We don’t have any Lego guns…” I was monumentally unprepared. “Um, okay,” I answered, waiting to see what he would do. He made a phlegmy mini-explosion sound with his mouth, a masterful gunshot with a short ricochet, and I realized some flag pole or something had already become a rifle and we had a man down. If I thought I was unprepared before, I was really unprepared now. Kids are amazingly insightful, and he knew that we were in uncharted territory. He looked at me to check my reaction. What I wanted to say was, “Okay, no more Legos until you’re 21, buddy,” but instead I began to scratch my chin and look around. He did that kid thing, where he started looking around the Lego set with me, even though he had no idea what we were looking for. “Okay..." I stalled. Then it hit me. "We gotta get this guy to a hospital.” “We can build it!” he yelled. “Gotta move fast, he’s been shot,” I offered. We built a little room, and turned a wizard or a construction worker into a doctor. “How’s he doing?” I asked, a couple of minutes later. “Good as new,” my son answered. “Well, that’s a relief,” I said. And I knew, finally, what I guess every parent knows: boys are born knowing how to make explosion sounds, to them every stick is a potential gun, and all great stories have an all-important fight. And it won’t be fought with words. |
