In Celebration of the Boy

“Mom, when aliens invade, the average amount of time the home planet species survives is six months. Do you think, as humans, we’d make it past six months?”

I kept driving, unphased, considering my response. This wasn’t the first time I’d been presented with interesting “facts” from my 10 year old son that required some thought before answering. Over time, I’ve learned from him that, at nine feet in length, the largest fish on the planet is the Arapaima, there is allegedly a gun that shoots around corners and the fastest street legal Audi is a Q8….or something like that.

“I guess you’re assuming those Aliens don’t come in peace. We’d have to consider their weaponry and special powers, don’t you think?” 

My answer begins an in depth discussion of aliens, planet invasion and why this was on his mind in the first place.

The Science Channel, apparently.

When we were fortunate enough to have a son join our family of two daughters, people kept telling me, “Boys are so different!” Aside from the obvious, I thought I was pretty well prepared for him, having grown up with brothers in a military family.

I was so wrong.

“What were you thinking?!” has been uttered more than once as I’ve discovered a perfect two-inch square cut from the window screen with a newly acquired Cub Scout knife or struggled to extract an eraser from a nostril. Discovering the garden hose has been turned into an irrigation line with tiny holes burned into it through magnifying glass and sun experimentation elicited the same question.

Opening the dryer door is similar to selecting Door #2 on the game show, Let’s Make a Deal. I never know what to expect as pocket contents that made it through the wash come to light—favorite rocks, untwisted paper clips, rusty bottle caps and my heart-stopping favorite—the very life-like rubber centipede or scorpion.

The number of ER visits for broken bones and stitches has outpaced his more cautious sisters’.

Just about everything is a gun—even an innocent carrot or stick of celery. 

I’m sure, when he was younger, he thought  his name was,” Jack R U Okay” as that was what I nervously shouted after every loud crash or, ironically, lengthy silence. He learned to mitigate concern following unusual noises by yelling out, “I’m okay!” before I could ask if he was.

Explosions and fast cars direct a large part of our conversations. Asking to save shows for later viewing about a giant prehistoric snake, “Titanaboa” or engineering show “Build it Bigger” serves a stark contrast in the girls’ television taste of “The Office” and “What Not to Wear.”

What I also didn’t anticipate was just how sweet a boy can be. He finds a blanket to cover our old sleeping  cat “in case he gets cold.” He's too young to work me for the car keys and not heading off anywhere that requires money. He hugs for no reason, and says “I love you, Mom." And the very intuitive, “You know, Mom, 40 is the new 27,” just makes my day.

Bring on the aliens, lizards, weaponry and ER visits. I love that boy.