I was probably about 6 years old when Matthew Meese, who lived around the corner from me, had the brilliant idea to play cowboys and indians. We went to his house, where he ran inside and momentarily produced the following: A papier mache "Indian shield" that his older brother had made in art class; a handful of .38 caliber bullets; and a chrome snub-nosed .38 revolver. (Matthew's father was a security guard.) He handed me the poorly painted papier mache shield and all but one bullet, and then began busily working at the revolver, trying to figure out how to get the chamber free from the gun in order to begin loading bullets. While he was doing this, my eyes were darting from the shield to the gun. I can still feel the sweaty lead tips of those bullets tumbling around nervously in my hand .... My six-year-old brain was apparently ahead of Matthew's in the logic department: "I don't think this shield will stop bullets," I offered. His response? "It's a shield, shields stop bullets." No, no ... something was wrong here. (I knew that when mom safety-pinned a bath towel around my neck to approximate Superman's cape, that didn't mean I'd suddenly inherited the ability to fly and stop speeding freight trains with my outstretched arm.) Maybe I should run this whole thing by my mom. I handed Matthew the shield, and ran back around the block back to my house, where my mom was standing on the sidewalk talking to neighbors, like they used to do back in the old days. (The days when six-year-olds were free to roam the block on their own.) I approached my mom, and tugged on her shirt. I held out my hand and asked if it was true that ALL shields stopped bullets, even ones made of paper.
And that was the last time I ever saw Matthew Meese.
I did manage to keep a bullet ... As I recall, I had a pretty good idea my mom would confiscate them, and so I pocketed one on my way around the block. I had that thing for years. I would lose it much later, after we'd moved to a new town. Another crazy friend was convinced that one could cause a bullet to fire simply by smacking the end of it hard enough. He tried his best to drop it firing-mechanism-side-down into an empty storm sewer in an attempt to set it off. And there it remained, despite all attempts to recover it.
There are days when I stare in amazement as my two boys tempt fate - seemingly in every conceivable way - around the house. My oldest - who will cover his ears and run screaming from the room if you attempt to read him any story wherein a character gets in trouble or becomes sad - will happily try to traverse the living room by leaping from chair-top to chair-top. (Thankfully his head is harder than his pillow-soft heart.) My youngest son has made a habit of announcing all of the things he was thinking of doing, but didn't do. It's a frightening list: "Daddy, I didn't put my arms in the fire ..."; "Daddy, I didn't hit that little boy in the face ..."; "Daddy, I didn't put my head in the TV." He's also taken to providing sneak previews of intended future life choices: "Daddy, when I drive my car, it will be faster than police cars ..."; "Daddy, when I grow up I will jump out of helicopters ..."; "Daddy, one day I will break up all the trees in the whole world." (?) From both of them I get helpful promptings: "You should drive the car FASTER!"; "You should put your glasses in the fire ..."; and my favorite - SAM: "Let's take our brains out and step on them!" LUKE: "Oh YEAH! Take our brains out and put them in a MONSTER TRUCK!" This is the state of affairs at 5 and 2. Drat.
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4 comments:
Those quotes from Luke and Sam are wonderfully revealing. They are their father's sons, no? Hope and pray they continue to voice their thoughts so you can pre-empt any daring-do heroics.
I remember my grandmother letting slip some of the wild pranks my father and his brother pulled when they lived in NYC. After she saw the glint in the my eyes, spinning with re-enactment plans, she kept all other stories secret. "I don't want to give you boys any ideas," she said. "Awe, c'mon gramma, tell us another story. We won't do it. Promise!" Wisely, she never budged. But we found our own mischief, my brother and I, despite this minor setback.
Now, I find myself withholding similar stories from my son and daughter who ask with that same hungry spirit of adventure, "Awe, c'mon dad! We won't try it. Promise. Please! Please!!" “Uh… no. No way.” Which reminds me of a quote I read from a Dobson book on bringing up boys:
"Canadian psychologist, Barbara Morrongiello, studied the different ways boys and girls think about risky behavior. Females, she said, tend to think hard about whether or not they could get hurt, and they are less likely to plunge ahead if there is any potential for injury. Boys, however, will take a chance if they think the danger is worth the risk. Impressing their friends (and eventually girls) is usually considered worth the risk. Morrongiello shared a story about a mother whose son climbed on the garage roof to retrieve a ball. When she asked him if he realized he could fall, he said, "Well, I might not."
It's fascinating just watching them play out in the yard. It's like watching storm clouds gather, the way they seem to naturally drift toward trouble: It isn't just picking up sticks, it's finding the two heaviest or sharpest ones available and swinging them at each other; it isn't just collecting cool looking stones, eventually it turns into throwing those stones; it isn't just climbing up on that thing, it's also jumping off it ... and eventually jumping off it and onto your brother. Anything can be turned into a game that involves shooting, blowing up, or racing, and no object is EVER used for its intended purpose. And I have two very well-behaved little boys, at least if teachers and the folks in the church nursery are to be believed.
As I don't have girls, I have know way of knowing if this is particular to the make-up of boys, but as I was one once I'm inclined to say that's the case.
Kevin, I have 2 girls and 2 boys...and I assure you. Boys are a different creature.
Suz ... yes, it's surreal: A distant part of me remembers being the creature known as "boy," and yet I'm constantly amazed and alarmed at the ways they constantly probe and attack the walls of peace and quiet!
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