I used to wonder, do the people who have weird kids actually know that those kids are weird?
Yes. Yes, they do.
Today was my 4-year old’s “Special Day” at preschool. He wore his favorite clothes (a Lightning McQueen golf shirt and jeans), took his favorite snack for his friends (ginger snaps, which he helped bake), read his favorite book (Bad Kitty, by Nick Bruel. This book is f’ing brilliant. Seriously, check it out). Then, he made his “Special Day Book”.
The other children drew pictures for the book (note to self: watch little E., the boy who did not one, not two, but three pictures of himself and my son, surrounded by lopsided hearts. If things go a certain way, I’ll bring it out at their commitment ceremony one day). He added some pictures he’d brought from home, mostly ones of him and his grandfather farming. And then, there was this questionnaire:
My favorite colour is: red
My favorite toy is: some treasure because I haven’t seen it for a long time. (A comment on my housekeeping skills, perhaps? Toys so lost in the mess that is our home, he’s had time to become nostalgic for them…)
I like to eat: rice
I don’t like: I don’t know if I like eggs because I didn’t try it yet. I don’t like watermelon. (He has tried eggs. He asked for scrambled eggs once. I made them. He took one bite. He retched. Turned out, he had been thinking of those chocolate Easter eggs with creamy centres. That, my friends, is the definition of disappointment.)
When I grow up: I want to be a police man so I can fire some guys. (Most kids want this job for the altruism, the adventure. My kid is already interested in the politics of it all).
If I had a magic wand I would: hit somebody (What the crap?)
Sometimes I worry about: 20 things. You know, 10,000 things. I can’t tell you because I don’t remember them all. (Wow, at least he should have his first ulcer over and done with before Grade 1).