The Best Part of Having Boys

Typical exchange between father and son:

Wait . . . Dad?

Yes?

Can you make a sword out of a diamond?

No.

Why not?

Diamonds are too little to make a sword out of.

But what if you put a whole bunch of them together?

Well using that logic you could make anything out of anything.

Anything out of anything?

Yes.

Wait . . . Dad?

Yes?

Could you make a sword out of a human?

hmm . . . 

See, its exchanges like this that make me wonder if I really am raising serial killer. I see how his ferrel imagination could make the leap to making swords from diamonds, but there is quite a gap between perfectly aligned carbon atoms and dismembered bodies.

But truth be told, he is no more killer than I am potato.

A killer doesn't cry when he has three friends and only two juice boxes. A killer doesn't worry about getting in trouble for going the wrong way on the slide. A killer doesn't snuggle.

There are three common behavioral markers that are common among serial killers. First, they are bed wetters deep into their adolescence. Calvin hasn't wet the bed but maybe twice since he was potty trained and both times he was sick.

The second, is the torturing and killing of small animals. Insects, birds, cats, anything that can be caught and mutilated. And, although Calvin no longer screams in violent terror when a butterfly swings too close, he would still prefer them to play on their side of the backyard.

Third is a deep, obsessive connection with "The Catcher in the Rye" So unless they are still teaching Salanger in schools, I feel pretty confident we can tiptoe around that minefield.

I will, however, keep an eye on him if he starts referring to everyone as "phonies"for that will be both disturbing and irritating.

So if psychopath is off topic for the moment, what could possibly have entered his little brain that would make such a question relevant?

The correct answer is: Who knows?

Legos have interchangeable parts. Could have been a torso turned into a cannon.

Joann just finished the second season of The Walking Dead. And though we don't normally invite our little princess into our room when we watch scary stuff, I'm sure if he caught a  glimpses of zombie limbs falling off and being used as clubs, it was unintentional, but no less scarring.

Whatever it was, it was most likely innocent.

Intelligence coupled with anxiety coupled with imagination and no Dewy Decimal System of the mind to file things away in an efficient manner.

Cause that's what it is with boys. Cuddles and battle scars. Blood lust and butterfly kisses.

Weird, but nothing to see here, move along.

And there we were, Joann and I, driving through a another round-about on our way home when we saw a dad and his little daughter.

"Sometimes," she said "I'm so sad that we never had a little daughter I could dress up."

"Good God, Joann." I replied. "Can you imagine how awful that would be?"

"Oh please, I'm not talking about a teenager, come on, admit it, you'd melt. She'd totally be daddy's little girl."

"I'm not arguing. I'd purr like a well fed cat. But the best part about having boys is that I can hit them in the face and not feel bad about it."

"That's horrible!"

"Whatever. . . . phony."