My Son, The Future Liberal Human Rights Lawyer

Yesterday, a scant five days before his third birthday, my son made a first fateful step that can only lead to a life of elbow-patched tweed jackets, gently used Volvo wagons, and NPR tote bags. ewwwww.

Me, to my wife: There’s a mosquito the room.

My son, to me: I don’t yike mosquitoes.

Me, to my son: I don’t like them either. They bite.

My son, to me: I don’t yike mosquito bite.

Me, to my son: I’m going to kill him. (Long, thoughtful pause follows)

If only, instead of scanning the walls, I had been watching his little face, the big, brown puppy eyes turning like oily cogs connected to a whirring little mind. I would have seen the thoughts ground, compressed, molded, and spat out . . . .

Give him another chance! (Peals of laughter from my wife)

Another chance? But he’ll bite you! You don’t want me to kill him first?

No. . . .

I wondered if he was just repeating a phrase he’d heard at a coincidentally appropriate moment. I asked,

Do you have any other ideas? (Pause for more deep thought)

Time-out! (Wife now apopletic and doubled over with laughter)

I should add that a week before this, I asked him where his shoes were. He answered, “North Korea!” I’ve obviously spent too much thought on this . . . .

Maybe I need to start letting him watch the Power Rangers again.

Update: When I came home, my first question was, “What do we do to mosquitoes?” My son, with the enthusiasm one expects of a child with the blood of Mongols and Vikings in his veins, shouts, “Kill!”

That’s my boy.